Afterlife of a vampire
by SAINTIXE56
Summary: Death is not an end, even for a vampire. Afterlife is in crisis as the System's tampered with. Will Mitchell escape from Hell. A second chance comes with a price. Mind games and counterspells. Part 1 complete. French writer, reviews welcomed
1. Chapter 1

There is this last thing you remember when you die, except that in his case he remembers the first and the second time he died. The first one happened in a dismal French wood, at a time where generals could foolishly use their own soldiers as cannon fodder. Not that made a difference the second time around when he died, the generals were as stupid while young men carried on dying under different skies. It had been cruel, lonely, frightening the first time, a decision taken on the spur of a moment; but the second time, he had begged for it, pleaded for it. The gift of eternal youth had been a curse. He had lost so many friends to Death, a role he has taken himself on so many souls. A scourge was what he had become. The terrified young man, who was looking for a glorious death as a way out for forgiveness, had been the mean of an un-glorious way to die. No family, no love, no children, an empty lonely life. If that was life at all? Until about one hundred years later, he had found a friend. A real live friend and that friend had finally freed his soul. One instant, he was terrified to become again a murderer. What did Wyndham say: an attack dog? That was even worse than his last stunt. Yet his friend, tearful, anguished, had overcome his refuse to kill him and done the deed Kaiser Wilhem had not been able to do. Free at last, he was free.

He knew from having witnessed it many times how his "departure" must have been from George point of view. Now, he knew what happened front line. He was like being suddenly drowning into a fog. A very dense fog, his friend features being quickly swallowed by the grayness. The chest pain becoming more intense every second.  
>One can bear so much grey, up to a point. After a few minutes, hours, he started getting impatient. Was that Death, a vast nothingness? Was that a most cruel joke, where a lonely life was better than a lonely death? Then he felt a push and the fog lifted.<p>

A queue. He was standing in a queue, a very long queue. Numerous queues, to endless booths, in a hall which made New York Grand Central Station look provincial, shabby and microscopic. The people in front of him were in a right state of panic, the people behind him, also. Mind you some were serene; some were even joking, holding hands. He turned his head further behind; every second more people were coming, but about as many were seen and sorted at the booths. There was no fog at all, just lifts, countless lifts. The men with sticks, he had seen in 1917 were noticeably missing. No corridor, nothing, just queues. Young, old, some very old helped by pristine white assistants, some so cringing young, they were carried in the arms of similar staff. People in different costumes, different languages, race, and age, all mingled. He recognized some uniforms, US marine chatting with Taliban. Elegant cover-girl, standing demurely in mine after a homeless vino.

Overall, the global feeling was tense. All around him were like him, technically dead. Proper dead. Waiting for what? He was going to walk closer to the booth, not planning to jump ahead of the queue, just to see what was happening when one of those white-clad assistant seemed to appear out of nowhere by his side

- Take the booklet, all is in the booklet. Do not forget to complete the form at the end of the book. A pencil is attached to each booklet, answer all the questions, your DOD has been stamped as the hour, second and dodecasecond. Do not worry; just be truthful in your statement. If not properly completed, the management denies all responsibility of what happens next.

She left jus abruptly as he has turned up. The queue was like a very long snake. He could now figure out what was written at the top of his line booth. March 23, 2011, 21.59 pm, 03sec, 12 docsec; he was queuing between 11docsec and 13 docsec. Great. Nothing to do but fill the form. Annie had told him about changing rooms and form to complete; it seemed that Annie place was not his, no purgatory, just a fucking queue and no chairs. Could have been worse. Until he heard the music. Music and balloons, a group of assistants for lack of a better word were singing, carrying flowers for some, a champagne bottle and fine crystal glasses, that plus a ridiculous birthday cake with candles?

The recipient of this show was a tanned ONG nurse, still in her Doctors without Borders pajamas; she was hugged, kissed, and led to one of those posh glass lifts, the group disappeared behind the doors, moving upward and upward until, it literally disappeared from human or dead sight.

That was when it started to gain on him, that his fate had not yet been decided. Slowly but surely fear was taking hold of him. Looking at his boots, he tried to get his obsidian eyes, did not work, fangs out of order. No vampire here. All humans, all in the queues, all in line waiting for the booth. He felt compelled to open the book, endless boxes to tick, complete. Boring. He knew deep inside the officer behind the glass was going to have a regular go at him when he would read vampire on his form.

What really, really frightened him was the man in another queue, upon handing his completed form, and reading, reading what? A siren, a long bellowing siren had exploded and two surly policemen had sided the man, pulling him to a dodgy looking warehouse lift and the trio had disappeared, though not without the vision of the poor lad being manacled.

OK, that was it, they were all on triage. The book had to be complete. Let's start the fun! Date of birth, below, his date of death, name, so far so good. Name of mother, name of father. They had to accept the unknown. Not that he did not know his history. For all he knew, he had the name of his father, the father who had died before marrying his mother. She had carried her love child without a wedding ring, the shameless strumpet; she had loved the child who brought her shame, the child who was his father spitting image, working day and night to make ends meet, to give warmth, food, a roof, to her bastard love child. Quickly, he had learned that his mother was not an "honest" woman, what it meant not to have a father, a man in the house; the other men who tried to impose on his beloved mother, the tears she silently wept in the night. He also learnt to love his father; for despite being branded as a fallen woman, she loved as fresh as dawn, the man who had brought her disgrace.

The book carried on probing the man Mitchell John; the man who grew up without a father, who lost his mother, the orphan, the musician, the rebel, the revolutionary, the traitor, the soldier, the man who chose to be a vampire.

The child was not stupid, he tried to defend his mother; more than once came back to the little house, with bloodied lips or a black eye; not strong enough to defeat the bully, strong enough to fight anyway. That did not prevent her from death from exhaustion. The priest taking interest in the rebellious dark child had seen through the resentful eyes an intelligent mind eager to learn. The child loved music, sounds; from there, he was led to more academic learning. At the end, the orphanage school had brought too much pressure; given the choice between the blessing of the church, the assurance that becoming priest, he would be able to carry on his studies or leave school and become a soldier, he had thought that becoming a revolutionary was the third way , his real calling. Leaving the seminary, he joined the young men who wanted a free country. Easy to believe words, words do not carry weight, the repression was pitiless. Again asked to choose between being shot and giving names, he chose life and left abruptly his homeland. Shamed was his name, shamed like his mother, shamed like the father he missed so much. A soldier would die an honorable death, finally the shame would be washed by his own blood and the story would end.

The questions were straightforward, until he noticed a little question down the line: are you human, tick A are you else, tick B. OK, we tick else. The book letters reordered themselves: are you alive, are you undead? Ticking again the right answer, he saw 3 boxes jump under his eyes: are you a ghost, a vampire or a zombie? Vampire, what's next? More questions: they wanted to know who, when, why, how, what was he thinking, did he regret it etc etc .This was turning into a bloody university essay.

Herrick has changed the game. Finally, he was given a choice between humiliation and power. And he rejoiced at the power, he rejoiced at the fear he was reading in their eyes, the man who had drunk so many years at the bitter taste of shame and humiliation; he killed mercilessly, he killed for his parents, for every back hand turn he had suffered, he killed for the sake of killing, to forget, he killed because he loved it. At the end, he killed because there was nothing else he could do.

Killing was a chore, a prison, nothing else to do but kill. He would invent the most grotesque way to snatch a prey, the most cruel, like a child inventing games. A lottery of death, a competition of how many kills today, how many in an hour, in how many countries. Becoming a daredevil in the art of death was another way to escape his destiny. Kill the prey and kill those who are supposed to protect it. Kill the lovely red riding hood, the grandmother and the wolf hunter, kill till blood became like alcohol for an alcoholic. He got drunk with blood, more and more, till the abjection; killing till it meant nothing. Till he got disgusted of himself, gone was his reflection, but he did not blame the mirror; the creature he had become bore no resemblance to what he was once. The shame he carried was of his own making; he started to muse if he could turn the tide.

That Sheffield Christmas, he tried simply to have some company, he swore to himself, no drink, no sip, just a girl, just some fun, just company, real company. Next morning, a dead body welcomed his revulsed gaze. He was so addicted he could not even stop himself. He was a blood fiend, the last degree in humanity.

I am better than that. To start focusing, to try to grab piece by piece his shredded humanity was a very long exhausting battle; how many times one fails, climbs again, and fall , stumbles, walks a bit steadier, falls, bit by bit, inch by inch, crawling, but human he wanted to be again. Possibly, probably, regarding the vampire gene it was too late. For the rest, if he could limit the blood hunger for as long it could be, that was a first step. Climbing on the wagon became his goal, his Shangri La, his Heaven if there was a heaven for vampire, it would be a place where finally the need for blood would stop forever.

The book asked again and again what was he thinking, the tone was inquisitorial. At the top of the pages, he could read: we have all your actions and thoughts on tape: do not lie, you would pay the consequences.

He wrote his guilt, his despair, how he was sorry after each kill; how ashamed he felt. How wonderful had been for him the day he met Josie. Someone who actually helped him, loved him, and protected him again his own evil genius, from his own self made Hell. How she had gone after his plea to turn her to make her like him so they could be lovers forever; she wanted to get old, she wanted a family, but she was happy to sacrifice that and stay by his side as long she remains human. Left without her compass, he had struggled to stay clean, but relapsed again. Ups and downs, Vienna and the waltz of the Millennium, and one day when he was seriously contemplating some form of suicide, he met him. His friend, not a Josie, but a friend, a real friend; as usual the unexpected place to find a friend, a lyco, a werewolf for God sake. After that, he had felt stronger, thanks to good, faithful, wonderful had tried to stay on the wagon, with the sorry Lauren episode along the way. Stupid John, and his need for company, his physical need for a woman to love and be loved by. Annie, the ghost, so much like, like this blasted book was not going to be told; some secrets were his, some pains were strictly personal, some things are better left untold. Then Lucy, her treason, and his spiral down to madness after his blood shopping spree in the box tunnel. Killed Graham, killed Herrick, killing again and again till he was physically sick of it. Trying to save Annie, saving Annie, did that count? Probably not would say Lia. So no use of mentioning it. He wrote all his long life down, the booklet never seeming running out of paper, yet always asking more questions. Herrick, McNair, Annie learning his role in the death of those 20 innocents, Annie , losing her trust, her love, losing it all; back to Hell. It was a good thing George has decided out of pity to stake him, his soul was long gone; he was just an empty shell and now was judgment day.

The person before him was directed to what was looking like a double-decker, while other queues were shown to more buses with different directions. Some went down the lifts; some went up the posh lifts.

"Your book, please"

He pushed the booklet under the glass; the assistant seized it and processed it in a weird looking computer. In a few seconds, his eternity would be revealed. Deep inside, he suspected he knew the answer.


	2. Chapter 2

The anonymous assistant handed him a worn out plasticized document.

"Do you swear in your honor that you completed the form, omitting nothing, saying everything and not adding or making anything up. Do you understand that any omission, prevarication, or lie will lead to unpleasantness until your case is studied by the powers that be. The fine will range from missing one cycle of reincarnation to added years down below. You know what I mean by "down below". If by any chance you forgot to add your good deeds, they will be deducted from your recycling. The computer has all the data. The computer does not lie or forget. The software will decide which direction your soul will take. Accept your fate. If below, you can always call up an assistant and have your soul 100% recycled, the fabric will be woven into a brand new design. We are not responsible on the shape, form and fate of this new soul. Naturally, all the memories of your past will be permanently erased and are not recoverable."

Silence, silence can be an answer. The man behind him muttered something about people unable to make up their mind. Say yes, man, be done with it. There are millions behind you.

"Yes"

The book was introduced in the opening. Duly on time, a ticket, like a train or plane ticket was issued. A heavy hand tapped on his shoulder. Two cops were standing, one on each side of him; surly, big loaves of copdom. With all the required implements if an unhappy customer decided to discuss the destination.

A gasp escaped the queue standing behind him. They were no more pushing; they were giving him a wide berth, like he was contagious.

"Take the ticket, please. Direction 54, officers. Next, please…"

That was it, no tribunal, no prosecution, no defense. No lawyer. Just a book, his book of life. All sorted, done, dusted. He was going below, and his way out was to become an erased file. That is if he ever wanted a way out. Sorry, he was not going to play the game. No way he would beg and leave the room. His memories , however unsavory were his and he was going to keep on kicking. The officers were busy putting on the manacles around his ankles , the handcuffs already fitted . A quick pull to the lifts and downward he went. Along with the two coppers.

Whoever told those painters from the Middle Ages Hell was a burning furnace had been dead wrong. Hell is not boiling, scalding, hot as in tropical hot or Sahara hot, not warm, not even tepid. Hell is cold, freezing cold, unbearably freezing cold; compared to it, Antarctica winter is a summer breeze. But the cold is nothing to the pitch black darkness. Which means every move you take, you bump into people, things (what things?), into walls at very awkward angles not to mention constantly hurting your head.

5 minutes of Hell, and your eyes were aching for light, any light. Not true, some weird dim light. Enough light not to knock you in the wall, but not enough to read directions or avoid a sharp turn. Mind you, was it Hell? Not sure. One second, he was standing in a queue, waiting for a bloody train ticket. Next thing he was standing in that lift, that shaft going downward, always downward and the 2 cops or wardens, was it, who were standing by him. Shackled so much he knew, down was the lift going.

The lift episode had lasted, lasted… Lasted for how long? He was clueless; fact was he must have dozed off, how many times? If not downright fully asleep? He remembered actually changing lifts, always downward, like the bloody London tube, but going down and down and down.

Where did those other downward lines end up, was anybody guess. He just knew: it went down and the 2 guys were silent. He had tried to engage them in a conversation, any conversation; more they kept silent, more in turn, he had grown desperate to hear a voice, any voice, but silent they had remained. At the end, he was angry, red hot angry, stark mad angry that he had started to push them. Big mistake, he had clearly forgotten the shackles around his feet and wrists. Try that with ankle cuffs and see if you keep your balance. Ignominiously pushed back, not very gently between them, he had been left smoldering to his own thoughts.

Yet, he had been able to have a glimpse at the keyboard. This system was diabolical, so many directions, so many stops, so many stations. Lost, he lost everything, time, sound, direction. All was left of him was to know who he was and what he had lost. What he had failed, when, where, how and why. Making him feel even more miserable than he was. Because remembering the past, that he could do, with clear cut focus. The famous Powers that Be were masters of psychological torture. Anyone fit can handle so much physical pressure. The punishment was to be soul intended. His memories would be the death of him. Remembering, blaming himself for his losses, his failures and no redemption, no way he could redeem himself after all he had done. Lost in so many ways.

It went on, going down, changing lifts, silence, falling asleep for…how long? Down and down it went. More it went down, more it went colder. His companions opened a hatch, put on coats, thick coats, thicker and thicker layers while he remained with the same clothes. Again he had tried to engage conversation, asking then begging for some protection against the …the freeze. But nothing had moved them anger, humor, rage, despair, humble prayer, even tears. Unmovable and time had carried on flying. It was so cold, yet he had managed to fall asleep though.

When he had awakened, he had found at his feet rags, barely wearable discarded clothes with gaps, and tears; but he had been thankful. Somehow he managed to put the said tattered jackets and gloves, but that was not enough to keep the cold on check. His guardians' unlabored breaths were dancing in front of their faces like a little fog. His own breath was much more unpleasant, like icicles sticking to his beard. Jesus, how long had he been going down now, his legs were shaking with pain for he had been standing up all along, so long he knew he had grown a beard, a long beard by the look of it. His limbs were stiff, stiff by immobilization, stiff because of the cuffs. Man, those legs did hurt…like Hell.

He had never been fussy on the shaving. Beside he had the best excuse on the world: try to shave in front of a blank mirror. The curse, every morning, you feel your hair grow and you don't see your face. In his young, well, younger days, he had to make do with the old razor blade, a real cut-throat, but with the 50s, new blades, new systems had appeared, electric razors, no more a risk to his own life. Facial hair had stopped being a problem. Well, not a problem until…now. Somehow, this display of hairy testosterone was the least of his problems and it was in a weird way keeping some part of him warm, write that less cold.

Down they went. At what speed, that was a mystery. Every cell of his body was crying FAST, very fast. That place was more than big, by now, earth, life as alive life standard he was outside the solar system! Death is indeed a very large hole.

The elephant in the room was that he has started feeling hungry, again hungry, proper "hunger", real hungry, real thirsty. Not pizza hungry, not carbohydrate hungry. Blood hungry, his eyes had surreptitiously wandered on his keepers necks. They were like him, no pulse, no flow, and no nothing. Hunger was his name. Was that the plan? Killing him by hunger? Blood starvation?

It had stopped. It had finally stopped. A quick glance at the panel, more directions to go down to or up to? The doors opened again. But this time it was not another corridor or hall way, with countless lift doors. It was …like a cave, a very dark cave, eerily dark and the light of the lift. They pushed him out, firmly. The doors closed, he was out and alone.

He knew it was the last time he would see them ever, the last time he would see a human face, a decent light. He was alone, in the dark. Could have been the edge of the universe, ready for a free fall. He should have begged to stay in the lift, but he knew he deserved this fate. He accepted it, he had been merciless, especially during the last…incident. No mercy for him then. Whatever were the powers that be here, they showed him what real retaliation meant. He stepped out and banged his head, cut his head viciously, felt the blood rolling on his nose, reaching his lips, salty. And he found his way, the cave was … was how big can describe big. And he was hungry. Was that the plan; a dark lonely cold place, hunger…and memory?

It was bad, but clearly not bad enough as he started to hear a faint noise, a sickening noise of reptation and echoed voices. Instantly, he realized what he was listening at was plain wrong, "it" was human and horribly un-human. The voices were getting closer; friendly they were not. That is when he realized they were hunting him. He was the target, the prey; he started to run as fast as he could in that ocean of darkness. How did he avoid the thing on the floor, he would never know. Running with the devil behind him, he ran bumping into walls sharp angles, cutting himself even more, not caring about the blood that was now pouring for countless wounds. He ran until he felt safe. The floor thing was no more; he had heard them finding it, its pitiful cry, their yells and then silence. For God sake, where was he?

In Hell, Hell version 4.0. Hell in its winter season fashion show. The rags were proving useful, the beard also, he stopped feeling sick when he was finding clothes on the ground. Now, he knew how and why he was finding them. More unlucky travelers to destination 54. Glad, he used what he could fit on a body that was starting to turn gaunt but he refused to acknowledge the facts.

He has met the voices, they were his own kin. Well no, not exactly. Some vampires, some humans, more vicious than him, werewolves too, even ghouls but no ghost there. Those people were cautious about him, they had tried to attack him and he had been able to push them back using a stick. A stick of some sort, his mind had taken a long time to register what it was exactly in the very dim light that shone through the constant night. He knew who they were, but he refused to accept it, he was not going to give him. He was not going to be like them. He was not going to let it win. But how long, the hunger was raging in him, he was Hunger, he was Thirst. The voice in his ears was tempting: have a go, it is easy, you are …well what you are and nobody is going to blame you; beside you are in Hell: how bad can it get. It is not like a double whammy; what Hell could be worse. He knew it was a lie, Hell can be worse.

He remembered that old man in Shangai, just after the war. The old man was intent on giving class 101 on Taoism He explained that there were mainly different Hells and it was. He shuddered trying to imagine what could be worse than that. What must be Destination 55?

Hunger was bad, but Memory was worse. Remembering all, all the bad, and all the good. The "Bad" was bad, but the "Good" was more painful. Even it was smaller than the "Bad"; it was 10 times, one hundred times, a billion time fold worse. Missing her, having seen the disgust in her eyes, the disappointment, not to mention her utter repulsion. To have hold her and lost her. To have found her and lost her forever. Better think of something else, thinking of hunger was a relief, in a weird way. Those Powers that be knew how to turn the knife deep.

His life, if that was a life was now reduced to survival. After almost one hundred years of being the hunter, the killer, he knew what it was to be a prey, an intended victim. His hunting skills were helpful, he was able to know, to feel if such a corridor was safe or not. He ran when he needed, avoiding as much as could be possible un-necessary effort. Each step in that cold was costing him, better save the energy when required. All came with a price.

The reptile thing, the thing he had mistakenly confused with a rope a long time ago, a benighted time ago, now he knew it at very close range. The wound on his left arm was a bitter reminder. When would it finally heal, no clue. Must be some venom in the bite. Exhausted, he had fallen asleep in some corner; next thing he could remember was a shadow above him. Barely the time to protect his neck, the pointed fangs had dug in his left forearm, inflicting unbearable pain, imagine needle sharp hell hot fangs like a wolf trap, like those tropical eels, murenas!

His right hand busied itself like a pavlovian reflex using the stick to push it away from him. "It" retracted the fangs, left leaving him panting at the rapidity of the attack and the pain his left arm was feeling. Excruciating pain for days or weeks, the wound was a constant reminder of never letting his guard down for a second. From then, sleep had been forgotten; barely a quick shake of the head, sleep was something one could not afford in destination 54.

One never knew what time was. He could have been down this dump for centuries for all he knew. Hell is patient, Hell has all the time it needs to drive you insane, pleading to be deleted, erased for eternity. He was not going to let it win.

However cruel, to remember her was better than not to. He could taste her lips, see her eyes, enjoy her innocence, and her good heart. How safe and better he had felt at her side. If she had forgotten who he was, he had known her from the start. From the start…better not go there. Better to pretend all started after he had met George, and decided to rent a house like two mates on low income, ready to put up with dodgy plumbing and sub standard heating. Better remember that than the full picture of his past, when he had been really human…


	3. Chapter 3

Today, the weather forecast for Hell will be cold, shit cold, colder and freezing in the South, anywhere else, it will as usual fucking ice cold. As a distraction, he was making up his own version of past television programs. On a good day, where the hunt pack was after some other lost soul like him, he was able to figure out a bit more about the place he had been sent to. A labyrinth of passages, some like long corridors where danger could pop out of any dark, OK, darker recess. The inhabitants were about always the same number, population growth zero. Either you gave up and some assistant carefully bundled in Everest gear was happy to assist, confirm your wish to be "cancelled".

Cancelled was the politically correct version, wiped out was the reality. The poor sod had barely the time to say yes, when the Assistant was putting some sort of device in his mouth and in less time than said, the unlucky, depressed soul, correct that, the suicidal soul was literally unknitted, unraveled like any old jumper, like all that was left was a thick ball of wool, ready to go for the next experiment. He was not an experiment; he was not a bloody thread to fit the fancy of those accursed Powers that be, those anonymous bastards, those never seen bogeymen who terrified humanity. Standing up tall as much as the low ceiling allowed it, he walked forcefully to the assistant, pushed him, or her or whatever it was, to the wall.

"My name is John Mitchell, you hear me. I am not your puppet anymore. Live with it, I am who I am and will not allow you to frighten me ever again." Since he had been pushed outside in Destination 54, he had felt the vampire gene return, his eyes could be black obsidian again, and his fangs were as ready. But "he" was not, he was not ready. Not ready yet, anyhow…

The assistant disappeared under his angry eyes like swallowed by the wall. Good thing the guy left, otherwise Mitchell would have missed the ever so faint sounds of the rampant "rope". Speak of a household pest, the rope or ropes were more like a nuisance than real danger if you were quick enough. Their bites were painful, sickening. It was just a constant reminder, a nasty booster injection to make you aware you were in Hell. Whatever the poison was, it sort of worked as a memory eraser gum. More and more bitten, more lost until one day the visit of the assistant was a blessing.

The real danger came of the voices, the others, the ones armed like him with the so-called sticks. How blind had he been! Sticks? Sticks, my arse. Those were not wood sticks, cricket or baseball bats; those were proper bones, proper femurs licked to the bone, cleaned up tibias, bones. Grotesque reminders of humanity, left over from whoever fell alive in the hands of those men. Those monsters preferred "them" alive, he could hear the cries for help, the howling, the sounds they made as they flayed them alive…alive. While he was listening, shuddering at the fading noises, he could not help having a part of himself rejoicing at not being their victim tonight, or today, whatever day or night it was in Hell.

Escaping the ropes and the men with sticks was hard enough; but the harder was the hunger. Those men had given up everything, they were no more human, and they were just that, just hunger.

Just that, just that basic need to feed. Like awful babies dependant of their mother milk. Blood, flesh, human blood, human flesh. Draining dry the bottle, the body, ripping the tender flesh apart, licking the bone till no scrap of flesh was left on it. The last level of humanity. Just before animals. On the telly, when they all had shared the pink house; he had watched a program where a historian explained what cannibalism had meant for cavemen. Cavemen, right. From now on, he was a caveman; that did not mean he had to behave like one. More they killed, the noisier they went. Most of their victims were fresh from the lift. When no lift came soon enough, they turned against themselves.

Blood, fresh blood. His too short night sleeps were a bath of blood, pools of juicy gorgeous blood, and fountains of blood. He was barely holding on, near to wipe the hell of them monsters. Drink their blood, ripe their jugular, let it flow… Bathe in it, swim in it. Gorge on it, endlessly. Blood, lose his soul, lose his mind, and lose him in it. Drink it, drink it for all eternity, rejoicing as the magic fluid dripped in his throat. Just that, just be an animal like them, nothing more than an animal. An instinctive beast with limited horizon, no dream or memory, just the daily need to feed.

He might have lost all hope to leave that Hell of his, he would be damned if he was going to give in. Somehow, he knew that if he gave in, became one of them, became a monster, he would lose his most precious possession; he would lose Her for good. How would he be able to face her again, if he killed, let alone fed? Bad enough to hear him been labeled as inadequate, to be called a cancer, but to persist, to carry on this thousand mile long blood fest spree, no, no way, not over his very dead body. That blood lust might be the thing of nightmares; he would fight it even if it had to kill him. This was going cold turkey in the coldest environment, the game being he.

When the thirst became as always unbearable, he stumbled in the shadows to some sort of recess, where he knew no one, yet, knew about. In that eerie dim light, it was not hard to miss the entrance. There, he would roll up one sleeve of whatever arm was available, whatever arm showing still a decent vein, and bite in it. The fangs digging deep into his own flesh, tearing the tender veins apart, the blood spurting out, streaming down his parched throat, dripping on his dry lips. How long would he hold, how long would he manage with this pitiful solution?

She could accept that, no more killing she had said. Herrick was a monster, a maker of monsters, his death did not count. But she would not tolerate any relapse, any surrender to the hunger ever again. If one day, by any chance, if one blessed, miraculous day, the lift opened and this time, they were calling him inside, he was going to be able to tell her he had been human all the way, not one step out on the wild side, no border crossing, no trespassing, straight and narrow was his nickname from now on.

That was in his dreams where she would be there in the lift calling him back to life; in real bloody Hell life, no one called his name, there was no saving for him. There was no answer to his prayer; God answer phone was on, and no one called you back, ever. The powers that be were not interested, their line permanently engaged and he was for Eternity on hold.

Time to time, the sinister assistant would turn up, especially after a bad day. How the guy could manage to smile was a mystery; his smile was as faked as a car salesman. He nodded him away again and again; the friendly death sentence would obstinately turn up. More and more often lately, this did not bode well for his survival.

That was it: you gave up and they took your soul; you were bitten by the ropes and slowly but surely you lost your soul again, or you were eaten alive and they won your soul any way; any which way, you were losing your soul. Losing his soul, that he could do, but losing his memories, even the terrifying ones, the ones he had admitted to Josie, that he was not accepting.

Annie was his, her memory, his memory of those too few fleeting moments when their two souls had been flying together were his. When that night, she had told him she wanted him, the sly puss. Not that he minded, God, he had been looking for her since ages. The girl must have been one of the most short-sighted women he had ever been interested in. From the day he had met and recognized her… No, must not go there. From the day with George, good George, they, the two boys, had met the Ghost, Annie Sawyer Ghost as she was now named… Must stop. From the day, he had read painted in red "get out" and thus met the ghost; he had but fallen steadily in love with her. No surprise here, as he had been in love with her all along since… Stop it!

They became friends, as it happens sometimes. Their friendship became stronger and different. That was it; steadily, he learnt more about the ghost, was impressed by her fortitude, her courage in the face of adversity. Jesus, he was speaking like George reading out loud one of his Swedish books. What really happened is more he learnt about Annie, more he wanted to learn about her; more he wanted to be a part of her life. When Tully had forcibly tried to assault her, he had felt a blinding rage. If George had not, by miracle, turned up, he was going to go and kill the offensive whelp. That…that dog had frightened this lovely, adorable girl. But George had finally come up to his senses; Tully had left never to return.

More he had learnt about her, more he had fallen hopelessly in love. To the point to listen in the night her light footed pacing in her room, trying to decipher what she was doing, wondering if alone, finally she was removing layer and layer of that grey armor she was wearing. Dreaming of her smooth skin, her glorious caramel skin, how well did he remember that skin; he has kissed it, licked it, he knew that sweet taste of her…and he was going to stop thinking about that skin.

After Herrick death, or rather Herrick perpetual admission to the limbo…Why didn't he inform George of that, well too late to lament. He was so fearful of giving anything away about him, so insecure about anybody foolish enough to befriend him. That's for you when you think you can rely only on you. When you are stubborn enough to think only you can deal with it. Herrick being dead, all was not well that ended badly. He refused to open up to her; preferring to court Jezebel or Delilah Jaggat; what was her name, Leann, Lauren…No, not poor Lauren. Lucy, yes, Lucy Jaggat.

He was looking for another Josie. Classic rebound, he went for Lucy, the evil genetician. All from there went spiraling crashing down. Instead of admitting to Annie that he wanted more, a lot more than a friend/friend relationship, instead of telling her how much he needed, wanted her, he went all the way for the religious fanatic. While he was making history and turning his deadly kin into lambs, Jaggat and Kemp were planning the slaughter of said sheep. Ivan, his friend, was among the victims. His people had trusted him; he had trusted Lucy with blind faith while all she was looking for, was a one night stand. She was taking him for a pick-me-up, the slut!

Poor innocent Annie, while he was betraying his friends…Not the first time, he was betraying friends, mind you. ..Stop, stop here. Annie was abandoned; she had no option but trust the cunning priest. Who knew the devil could be so obvious? It was not like they had been taken in. A cure for werewolves, by a priest, reciting prayers! God, how blind he must have been, blind and deaf. Father Kemp knew his business; his target had been all along the vampire. George and Nina could carry on camping in the woods, pulling a chicken on a string for all the priest cared. Annie, his Annie, was taken from him and sent to Purgatory. Punished for his crimes, punished because he had retaliated.

The pain, the pain of it. One thing is to be so drunk, so pissed, you end up frightening the girl you worship. Because there are so much physical needs one can bottle up; when intoxicated, no more inhibition and the polite vampire is all too ready to bed the innocent. That morning, when she left their, yes, their house in Bristol with Faithful George, George unaware of his part as a duena, he had watched them getting into the car and going away. That morning, he had thought he would never ever be able to breathe again; she was afraid, he had frightened her. How would he ever be able to regain her trust? Losing her again was bad, but losing her to Purgatory, that had been Hell.

Lucy had closed her eyes, accepting a well deserved punishment when he had felt this hand inside of him, tearing his heart apart. Immediately, he had understood the rationale behind it. He was ready to accept that he would have to win back her friendship and any friendship was better than nothing. The hand meant she was gone, actually gone as gone from this life dimension; he was not going to find her again ever!

Lucy died; this must have caused someone in the afterlife to feel generous with him, generous or playful. He saw her terrified on the screen. Being undead has its perks; one can go to the afterlife back and forth like you board a train with a return ticket. Lia, the minx, had played cat and mouse with him. As long as Annie was freed, he could not care less, did he? He cared; he cared a lot, because now, he had stopped pretending to be the father figure, the elder wiser brother.

He wanted her, he wanted her love, more audacious, he actually wanted to live with her. They granted his wish. Not 100%, because he had to make do with a lofty lie, let's have it better, purer. His love was pure, that did not mean it could not be physical. Lia must have been laughing to stitches when he realized, that him, out of all men, or vampires, was unable to satisfy his woman. His heart was flat lined, his "business" too!

What's around comes around. He had killed 20 poor people among them a certified witch. The game was up. Herrick came back from the dead; he tried valiantly to stop the unraveling of the truth. Result: she knew he was a mass murderer, she guessed that Daisy had been more than a sidekick, his fine vampire ears had heard her compare him to bacteriae, how more low in her esteem could he get?

He loved her, he had always loved her and he had lost her. What was this futile resistance? The sooner it was over, the better. Let it come, let him be erased. At least, the incommensurable pain which was his, that weight over his shoulder, that vice grip of him since she had forsaken him would be gone. Yet she had said, he was her love, after he had said she had been the love of his long life? His mind was playing games; he was losing it, losing his mind.

What was not losing sight of him, were on one side at the end of the corridor the Sticks Men, a rope sliding through their legs for good measure and kneeling facing him with that weird syringe a death assistant. He was ready to give up. He had seen enough of the program, he was…

He was certainly not expecting to see a flying spear racing with sharp accuracy to meet the chest of one of his bewildered pursuers…


	4. Chapter 4

The room was large, very large, large enough to accommodate a football stadium crowd. This was not "a" room, this was the Appeal Room. Pre-booked centuries ahead, it was never lacking gaping crowds, eager to see a soul sent to the lions.

The lions were virtual; more often than none, the "room" confirmed a sentence, albeit once and a while a reduced term. The real fun happened when the appellant was given extra Hell, bonus Hell. Now that was sheer fun. All things being equal, it was just like in Nero's days; a trembling soul, a nod from the judges and the lifts opened again taking a screaming human "down below", like in the Coliseum.

At the end of a very large, by any human standard, table, sat the judges. The Ones who decided, the Happy Few, the Ones on calling terms with the Powers That Be. You could not miss the authority, the loftiness; those people wielded power, they breathed it. Not that they were cruel, or indifferent; their minds were as sharp as a scalpel, as inquisitive as a needle; they might forgive, they did not forget.

The computer data was theirs, they could probe any soul, open any back-up. Poor humans, they really did believe in the eraser prowler. What a joke. There is no such thing as a wiped out memory. All is in the system; the Powers that Be know everything, remember everything. They created, hence by definition they did not cancel. Their very own high was in making up stuff, creating souls. Creation. Constant flow of creation.

The buggers giving up to the assistant, were simply sent to whatever rehabilitation centre the facility, this universe size facility had. Rumor had it that there was a lot of rehab going on, a lot more than the official line reported.

At the very best, you could if you were very in luck that day, see, and meet the Whiter Ones, like the Judges. Never the Powers that be, too occupied in their research centre. The real power rested with the Whiters. The Searchers allowed them to run the show as long as their creative genius was given free rein. Other beings existed but those were the stuff of legends. Possibly.

If one day ever, this was to be filmed, you would see at the top end, those people dressed in white, in different shades of white, with faint touches of grey, stripes, other polka dots, very small, almost microscopic . The judges were not perfect, far from it; compared to the crowd, they were white as snow. On each side of the table, the defense and the prosecution; and opposite the judges, the crowd who needed all the space he table could provide.

The chairman, sorry, the chair woman was presently opening her laptop like all the judges. A few assistants were going from witness to witness making sure all statement givers were present. The alive witnesses had theirs provided on certified tapes. Neat trick, that. The live human, visited during a dream was happy to provide a thorough memory of their loved or hated ones. Even if the appealing soul had been an evil paedophile, the statement was valid, accepted by all the parties involved. The crowd was riveted when the defense team and the prosecution locked horns over the same phrases, the same words, twisting, tweaking their significance. Cross examination was a delight.

An empty chair was sitting on the table. The appellant was not required to attend. Most of them were already serving their sentence in Hell, in their very private Hell. To learn that they would be serving nine hundred ninety nine Afterlife years instead of one thousand was considered sadistic by the Powers That Be. Ignorance was a blessing. Factoid was that if a soul was really sitting, it meant the chap had a very good chance to be redirected to the buses, the reincarnation buses. This way, a second chance was offered. If good news were to be told, then the soul was present. A nurse assistant was always ready to revive the poor creature. Imagine you're in Hell? You get a reprieve! About all fainted, some cried, very few sat like in a trance, unable to realize their good luck. A right state of shock was the best way to describe it.

The crowd, the baying crowd was the following case's numerous witnesses. Rare were the Whiters among them, more often than none you had the Grays, about every shade of grey under the sun, and then you had the Dark ones. The Ones down below pulled out while they slept, so they would not suffer the trauma of thinking for one second, the judges had reconsidered their decision. Most Grays would not accept to sit near them, they were pariahs. Yet some Whiters sat among them; today two Grays had had the weird fantasy to sit with the convicts.

It was a match, a relentless boxing match with sides. Two sides ready to be at each other throats. This was really better than any Hollywood legal thriller.

The chairwoman pulled a hammer from her robe. The fun had started.

Ladies and gentlemen, those who are blessed, those of you in probation, those in need of rehabilitation, those of you of who are under below deck management, welcome. Today, the Appeal will look at a road. Today, we shall decide that the decision to send the owner of that road to Destination 54 was wise and justified. Today, there is no way that the soul we are calling to stand in front of us will lie, hide from our eyes and deny Truth. Today, we call you John Mitchell.

Silence. Must be a mistake. Big Bad John Mitchell appealing. The vampire soul was more than black; it was ebony black, anthracite black, black hole black. Some people were really, really idiots. The Judges were going to teach the mass murderer that they were not going to be taken in.

Some witnesses were indignant. A monstrosity, sheer evil. An orphan maker, a breaker of hearts… The level of mutterings was rising until the Judge coughed. Silence, better be silence with the Judges. The crowd had no choice but accept the judicial joke. Two witnesses carried on their dark mumblings unwisely. The chair woman hand was pointed at them.

Is there a problem, Grey 1978? Same question for you, Grey 752?

He is a vampire; this is a travesty of Justice.

So, you know Justice. You serve Justice; you are able to see through the hearts and souls.

I am a priest and…

You killed at least two people, plus all the other ones.

I am a priest and…

You must be so sorry the Afterlife is not like you imagined!

He is a vampire…

I am not deaf

You do not know…

The look she gave him made him writher. He felt compelled to gulp. Purring like a cat, she was toying with the old man.

Do you know who I am exactly?

You… you are a Judge.

Which means?

You are to be listened at and your decision is wiser than mine. You know more and you rejoice in the presence of God…

Tss, Tss, the Powers that be; just that, not more…yet so much more than your pitiful limited human imagination or religion ever told you.

Her short cropped head bent toward the grey headed man, she was saying something the microphone was not getting. Whatever it was, it worked fine. He did not like it, but he had to make do with it. The look he gave back was furious and secretly envious. One learnt quickly not to mess up with the Whiters. Even less with those higher up in the hierarchy.

How can you judge? You are not impartial. Look at you, you have a black band!

True, Grey752.

You killed!

Indeed. Every day, I pray for the souls I slew.

Have you no shame?

No, none whatsoever. Why?

It…it is a crime!

No. You have to understand, child, there is this thing of the bigger picture. Some time, the game gets too hot, the story too dense and choices have to be made. Not easy, but cruel choices. I killed because there was no other option. I killed without hate, because it was the only solution. I deplore the lack of choice. I accept the decision of the Powers that be; some days, you have to stop the story. The story has to end.

You are a hypocrite, you are…

…A Soul Saver.

The crowd was captivated. First, this row between the Head Judge and a witness; next the revelation that the Judge was one of the fabled blessed. Those souls who, through suprahuman, heroic deeds had saved souls on Earth. Those souls had been blessed by meeting the mythical Powers that be before Death. Such revelation had given them the power to save souls. This meant for those not touched to be deemed forever lost.

John Mitchell was facing one of the toughest judges of the Afterlife; the vampire did not stand one infinitesimal chance.

- You may be feisty, spunky, whatever your generation uses for a fighting spirit for all we care. It takes more than being a witch to become blessed. You have to love your killer, your executioner; you have to forgive him; for you are the innocent, and he is the one who is to blame.

- Do you care for your killer, Grey752? Aside vengeance? Vengeance is bitter, child. Vengeance is skin deep jerk reflex. Archeocortex. Goes way back to the dinosaurs. Are you a reptile, child?

The crowd was laughing at the expense of the young woman. The hammer fell.

Bring on the first witness: His Mother.

The committee was sitting nonstop. Beverages, food were brought in, out. People tool turns, sleeping on the chairs. The judges carried, quiet, paying attention to every detail, listening to every testimony. Some witnesses were recalled. The prosecution and the defense team were seen drinking coffee together. Today they were enemies; another road to examine and they would be on the same side. They were not enemies; they were just doing their job: find the Truth, give all the facts to the Judges. The Judges were to decide, serenely. The quality of the appeal was secretly giving hope to some Dark Ones. If ever they would appeal, they knew their own road would find the same rigorous, trustworthy, and impartial approach.

Nobody hurried the lengthy detailed process. It went on as long as the Head Judge and his colleagues were willing it to go. One day, it was completed, the last witness had spoken. A live human, still heartbroken. The judges were empathic, the loss was still fresh. The man would have still many nightmares to live through; he loved his friend. He could not believe it yet he had had the audacity to do the deed. It was not tomorrow that he would be accepting that the choice had never been his. The only thing the judges were able to live in the grieving human was the seed of hope that one day, all would be fine. Poor comfort. Better than nothing. To know, possibly, that one day, all would be fine.

The head judge was the last to close her laptop. All had been entered, including the numerous missing items the undead had forgotten. The chairwoman was impressed; this blood sucker had not lied. Good! He had omitted numerous good deeds. Even better! Putting the blame on his shoulders seemed, though, a worrying habit. The man had an honorable sense of responsibility. Most people were not keen on following such a course of action. Not everyone is a masochist.

She turned to each of her colleagues. The final decision was hers.

A vampire, a mass murderer, an orphan maker, a breaker of hearts.

A decent man to the end.

The immense screen behind the judges lighted up. John Mitchell fate was sealed for eternity.

His pursuers were not taken aback to see one of theirs killed; it meant just more food to satisfy their hunger. The "rope" was close; the assistant was offering his help. His eyes blinked; now he was seeing fucking arrows, two arrows. One for the "rope" writhing in pain, its body transpierced, one for another unlucky pursuer who had to meet his Maker, now. The assistant faded away. His hunters always barking, howling became mute, looking at the end of the corridor. Mitchell followed their startled gaze.

The most incongruous, the most beautiful thing he had ever beheld was looking at him, clearly as surprised. Whoever knew the rules of the afterlife had the wackiest sense of humor. In real life, a ghost had been a vampire guardian angel; in Hell, a vampire's angel was …an Eskimo? Mitchell would have bet the corridor had no exit, but it had. It had an exit! A real proper exit, now he was back on Earth, real life Earth, with real snow, real ice, real cold. He did not understand one word his savior was saying. The Inuit was talkative, very talkative, too bad! Was he back on Earth, Canada, Greenland? Could be Siberia, if the BBC program was right. He was pushed, half carried, almost lifted. Thank Heaven for the furry hunter who had saved his life.

Covered in furs, felt, layers on layers, the polar hunter meant business; the bow and arrows were not decorative, nor the hatchet hanging along his leg. He had heard curious noises in the cavern and decided to see if the Old ones of his clan were lying. They said "things" lived inside, bad things, bad creatures. No one was supposed to go near. Not even the snow tigers, not even the bears, all the creatures were avoiding the entrance. If a long tooth killer was not going in, it meant it was bad. Worse than taboo.

Eee-shaa-l was not a child, a youth possibly, but not a child to be terrified by the old crones. The hunter had accompanied his father to the hunt since ten winters, he was seasoned. The snow rabbit had entered the black entrance, Eee-shaa-l was going to follow, kill the rabbit …and learn more about the noises.

Those noises, he knew them, cursed. The Cursed ones, cannibals, all of them. They deserved to die. No pity for them as they showed no pity to their captives. They were going to kill another hunter. What was that creature? Whatever it was, it was bad. If it lived with the Cursed Ones, it was bad and had to die. Another arrow to teach the preying Ones that Eee-shaa-l was to be taken seriously. Grab the poor soul, and run together back to the winter landscape. The snow had started to fall, they would be lucky if they reach the base camp. The other was clothed with a strange fabric. That did not look warm, totally unfit for winter hunting, summer hunting too. No spear, no ax, no dagger, he must have lost his weapons inside the cave. Quick, hurry, the sleigh was here, the dogs were yelping ready to go, the snow was getting thicker.

It was freezing. Hell had been cold, but that was cold, major cold. He stumbled to the sleigh, into the sleigh. Watched his savior, this angel of life get the dogs ready. The voices had stopped. They had not dared to leave the caves; Destination 54 was having its first successful prison break. He was starting to laugh when he looked at the dogs. Those dogs did not exist, what were they? Large wolves, very large ones.

The hunter rubbed his nose with the leader. Since more generations than his hands and feet could count, the wolves had made an alliance with the humans. Too-reek was the leader of this wolf clan, he had to be told as a respected elder where Eee-shaa-l and the "other" would like to go.

A sharp whip lash; they were gone, swallowed by the falling snow fog. As for those of the Hell men who had been stupid enough to follow them in the brewing snow storm, they were also gone. The small snouted bears they met were hungrier than them.


	5. Chapter 5

"Mixed reviews?"

"To say the least!"

"Some are not …err…enlightened, you call that archaic, aren't you?"

"Positive Middle-Agers!"

"You're sure you want to carry on?"

"This is a pilot; a part of a pilot. The…Powers are quite keen to see how Prototype C can evolve. A and B have been such a breath of fresh air. It is a new venue, a new road. We shall carry on!"

"We as you or we as "them", the Powers?"

"The project is confidential and you've been told already too much"

"I am on an equal level!"

"Sorry, less people know, the better"

"Thank you so much for the trust!"

…

"The project is off limit. But…"

"…? But?"

"You are a Guardian, right"

"… And you are a Saver, so?"

"Some projects have gone awry, some that were not supposed to fail. Some data had been tampered with."

The white coats were floating in the sunset. The room was as usual large, though not as big, mercifully as the Appeal room. This was the private quarter of some top brass in the Afterlife.

You expected the whiteness, the light, the refined atmosphere. On a wall, a procession of Theban priests and priestesses were still glorifying Amun God, just as fresh as it had been carved a few thousand years earlier.

The couple was now sitting by the terrace. Inside the room, two empty glasses rested on an Art Deco coffee table. The Appeal Judge, toying with her long necklace was hesitant. The pearls were shimmering under the sun rays, doing their best to hide the ugly scar around her neck. Whatever had killed her in Real Life had been painful; the jagged line whispered painful and repeated.

Tonight, she was simply wearing some cargo trousers, with a neat black band at the waist with a coat opened from it. Simple, elegant. Her guest, about the same age, preferred a military style; there was no show of what had shortened his own life, his white jumper slashed by a black band. Ever so slightly wider.

She knew he would follow the nuggets of information provided. The notion that somewhere in the compound someone was trying to alter the Powers decisions was bad news, very bad news. He would have to see to it. What was not seen was the shadow who had been listening at the conversation.

"So…it was not a fanciful trick, like a rabbit pulled out of a magician's hat?"

"The file should have been reviewed ages ago. Prototype C willfully forgot quite stubbornly to complete a proper form. His obfuscations should have been found out from the Station. A proper destination equation would have been entered in the System. Result: he ends up in Destination 54"

The man cringed.

"54! That is bad; A has been granted company while B is serving Security Max Rehabilitation with Parlor rights! 54! I suppose you had no other option…"

"One of my colleagues is suggesting some well-deserved holidays"

"We could do with some"

"The powers have confirmed the decision; they want to know who tweaked the Soul Scales. Hence you!"

"Good luck to that…And to Prototype C!"

The shadow left the room.

The shadows were closing in. The sleigh was racing under the heavy snow. Night was coming, the 2 lonely travelers could now only rely on the smell of the wolves dogs. Too-reek was leading his pack running as fast as his four legs allowed, sided by his female. The large animal was sniffing out the base camp… and something else. A night creature. Bad. If they made it to the ice tent, they would all be safe. The human would make sure the pack was inside, far from the claws of the night being. Humans save dogs, wolves save humans. A good alliance.

Half sit, half laid in the flying wooden contraption, Mitchell was shivering, trying to cover him with as many fur layers he could find under his hand. He could barely make out the shapes of the sleigh dogs, and the man who had saved him. But he was alive; his hands were touching wood sticks, good old wood sticks. Wood meant trees somewhere. Trees in return meant logs, fire, warmth, not to omit fruits, food. Life. Something which had been sorely missed in his own lately.

A weird noise rose from the darkness, strange as snow can become dark at night. A howling so guttural, almost like a wolf but deeper. The hunter whipped the dogs harsher while remaining silent. The dogs were running like their lives depended on it, also silent. No noise, but the falling snow and the howling somewhat closer now. What was that?

Then, the stop. A quick dash to free the dogs, all ran in a haphazard way toward… the hunter was getting exasperated. It was bad enough a night creature had smelled their odor, the silly cave man was slowing them down , jabbering a language he did not understand and not bending his head when he should be. The head pull was not friendly, the beard pull was even less.

Mitchell found himself on the ground, ice under his palms waking up his numb mind. Crawling behind the dogs, followed by his savior, he found himself in an igloo of some sort. The dogs were panting; their strong smell increased by the race and something like fear. The vampire sighed. In life, he had been cursed by the lycanthropes odors; his best friend being a werewolf, he had politely refrained to mention to George that his body smell was like rotting piss. Now saved from Hell, a very cold Hell, he was stranded on the Arctic Pole and stuck with smelly sleigh dogs. Sorry, smelly dogs and smelly dog owner.

The ice gave some light to the small habitat. Again the hunter tried to engage conversation with the fool. Because you had to be a fool not to protect your head from the snow in winter. The fool kept on gibbering nonsense. Eee-shaa-l had tried the languages of all the clans he knew. Not one had elicited a proper answer. They would have to try body language.

Suuu Eee-Shaa-l! Puvi teeh?

Puvi teeh?

The fool was looking at him like he was himself an idiot!

Suuu Eee-Shaa-l!

Let's tap on our heart and show him I am Eee-Shaa-l. Now tap on his heart. Puvi teeh?

Mitchell was doing his best, but Eskimo was not on the curriculum of the Dublin school he attended. He knew his savior was getting exasperated. What was Echal?

Snow? Food? Night?...Dog?

Let's try again.

"Sumiteeh Eee-Shaa-l. O-suu-eh?"

More taps on the chest. Mitchell was getting tired of that game as the taps were getting harder. Too-reek barked.

Mitchell's fury angry friend rushed to the entrance, setting his back against the ice door. Curious, those Eskimos built up some device to close completely their habitation; the body of the savior jerked, pushed by something outside, something who wanted to get inside. A very old instinct took over the Irish man. Whatever was outside was a big scary thing, something way scarier than a vampire would ever be and that thing was best left outside. He rushed up by his friend, both men legs pressing again on of the walls while their backs were holding the outside door. The mysterious howling was heard; the howler was behind the door.

The dogs were whimpering, they knew and they were afraid. The two men were afraid just as much, if not more terrified.

Eee-Shaa-l held a dagger to the fool. Better fight and die. Mitchell took the weapon, he was not really good with staking weapons, but he was happy to try. How long did the two men backs resist the outside pressure? No one having a watch, it was to remain a mystery. It was long and exhausting; but they made it.

The howling diminished, went silent, was heard again in some distance then no more. The ice door stood still. Wonderful silence. Too-reek lapped his ally face. Well-done, young one! Your father can be proud.

A big sigh. Two big sighs.

-"Suuu Eee-Shaa-l! Puvi teeh?"

A gentler tap on Mitchell chest. Oh, Gods! The fool heart was in the right place, but the man was stupid. Your name, what is your name?

-"Suuu Eee-Shaa-l! Suuu Eee-Shaa-l!

Mitchell could barely see the hunter features. A brown braid had appeared, some fair skin, but much was covered by fur. Not to be blamed for that, man! It was so cold, one could see why his savior would expose the minimal amount of flesh. Fair skin. Greenland or Canada; now days you find less and less pure Inuits.

Said Inuit was looking rather miffed at the minute.

Tapping his chest now like a hammer, he was yelling;

"Echal! Sue Echal!"

How could the vampire have been more stupid? Next, Mitchell tapped his own chest.

"Mitchell! John Mitchell!"

Tapped his savior chest.

"Echal! Sue? No sorry, Soo Echal!"

The Inuit was surprised. Surprised but less angry. Loads of more indecipherable words were said. He got the message though. "Zon Meet-shell"

Meet-Shell was his name, finally! Zon was that hunter language version of Suuu. Eee-Shaa-l was ashamed of himself. Suuu, Zon, obvious.

Soo was not Sue and not to be used. Tabooed word? Swear word? OK for Eeschall.

Proud of the linguistic success, the Irish Man was falling asleep. Good idea, the hunter was also tired. The sleigh ride had been exhausting and the meeting with the creature had badly shattered his nerves. A good night sleep and tomorrow the Sun God would bless the Creation. Sleep without fear.

Outside, the snow had stopped falling. A full moon was shining over the ice world. Far away, night creatures were on the prowl. The little ice house was safe and all its tenants were at peace with the world.

The stupid one had slept enough; the young one was already getting the sleigh ready, his walking boots on. Dog breath is not appetizing at any hour of the day; as far as an alarm bell, though, it works. The dark hair man rubbed his eyes, stretching his muscles. What a night, what a nightmare.

The look he read in the sleigh dog was not approving. Fuck, fuck. It was real; the nightmare had not been the result of a night out with George. He was waking up with 20 people killed on his conscience. Sorry 20 humans, plus the vampires he had led to destruction with his smart-arse idea of abstainous undead. Add for good measure losing Annie love and ending up in Hell.

Where was he now? In an ice cube? An igloo… with sleigh dogs. And the dog owner…holding a stake, a stake? Above his head.

In the daylight, he could see that his savior was shorter than him. Shorter, furrier, with thigh high leather boots, a furry version of the Michelin man. He shivered in the cold, his cotton clothes were not made for the North Pole. Next time he ever returned to Tesco, he would complain to the manager.

The hunter was holding the dagger up high to welcome Sun God.

Hand on dagger handle.

Welcome, Sun, Giver of warmth, of life. Dagger up high.

Welcome, God, maker of this world. Dagger showing world from right to left.

This hunter's heart belongs to you. Dagger on hunter's heart.

This hunter's world belongs to you. Dagger blade showing world from left to right.

Mitchell was interested by this authentic piece of ethnography. Not that he believed in God; God and him, it was a very complicated story. God existed, but did not care a shit about Mitchell. Fine. He would live with it. That Inuit religion seemed quite common sense. A morning prayer to whatever God of Travel existed in the Eskimo religion. They probably had a God of safe arrival. Ryan air would be interested.

The hunter had already on his eyes some sun protection device. The braid was out; he could see it just like he could see the chin. A youth. Youth… The teen ager had left his tribe probably to perform some obscure rite. An adulthood rite. Bet he did not expect to discover Hell Air shaft. This reminded him not to make fun of the young hunter. The spearing of the men with sticks spoke of an experienced hand, and the arrows meant to kill, had killed without pronouncing one word. This youth was a killer. Well, no, call him a warrior. On the Ice cap, either you behave or you are dead.

Unbelievable. The fool was wearing this ridiculous black feather light outfit. Gods, he wanted to die of cold exposure. Eee-Shaa-l dug into the sleigh. That would have to make do. Sorry, Meet-shell, you will have to get into these clothes. They are out of fashion and as you are taller than me, possibly too tight.

The felt mittens pushed in his hands a bundle of leather clothes; the sign of the hand was clear. Get dressed, man, no time to fiddle about. If only George could see him now, a proper Eskimo. Skinny jeans, George? No way George, this year is leather and fur pants. He brought back to the sleigh his last real life souvenirs, a bundle of 21st century savvy male fashion. Totally inadequate if you plan to spend a holiday on the top end of the planet. It was his and he was going to need them back to civilization.

Today, they were walking toward a dark shadow looming in the horizon. At one point, the hunter stopped. Opened a bag and sliced some brownish thing. Pushing in his hand another slice. So that was food. Dry food, meat? Pizza? The word drew a blank stare. This man tribe was not interested by Italian food. Beer? Another stare. Water was not a problem. Plenty of water, with crushed ice all around!

The sun was starting to set in the horizon when they reached the woods finally. His young savior was speaking nonstop since a good time. He had perceived that questions were asked. Can't do, mate. I do not speak your language. Yes mate, you are so right. No, you tell me. Mitchell, man, you really should not make fun at the man who saved your life. It is so tempting; please, just one more.

The snow was soft under their feet. Eee-Shaa-l was happy; soon he would be back in the safe enclosure of the clan. The fool could be smart; he was weary of Meet-Shell. The brown eyes were following him, as if he was not certain of what he was. An unknown quantity? Eee-Shaa-l father was a hunter, and Eee-Shaa-l was a hunter too. He was bringing back game to prove his might and a warrior. More warriors, more hunt territories. The elders would be pleased.

The Gods were not pleased to see Eee-Shaa-l mind wander off the respect he owed to them. He was not thankful enough. The bone dices rolled. The snow lion snarled.

Those two walkers had dared to walk into his land. They would pay for this crime.

Mitchell looked at the stripped fur, that was a beautiful big cat. What was less beautiful was the pair of rather long upper canines and the reddish mane like a Mohican hair cut. That beast did not belong to Earth, because it had lived twenty, fifty, one hundred thousand years ago. This was an Ice age snow saber tooth tiger. Unbelievable. Where, rather when was he?

Bad, that was bad. The spears and his arrows were in the sleigh with the wolves dogs. Why did he have the stupid idea to take a short cut, rather than follow Too-Reek and the sleigh? The only weapons were his dagger and the ax. Looking at the fool open mouth, he wondered if the idiot knew how to use the stake he had handed him the night before.

"Tiger, I bear you no ill will. I am happy to let you go. If you do, I shall spare your young ones. Tiger, I am a hunter , I will hunt you down and drink blood from your heart tonight if you persist"

What was the youth saying? It was utter madness. The kid was talking into himself to fight the saber tooth cat. Already the dagger has sprung in his right hand while a crude, serviceable hatchet had appeared in his left hand.

This was not a movie. The tiger was not happy of the situation, the kid was acting like bloody Tarzan while him, a very civilized Irish vampire, correct, a very civilized and cold vampire, correct cold man was supposed to do what? For about 100 years, he had prayed to be human again; now that his fangs could make the difference, he was a fucking Darwin child.

The tiger decided that the talkative human was a nuisance. Too many words. He would start by the child, then the seasoned one. Looking for an opportunity, Eee-Shaa-l senses were all focused on the tiger. The snow was covering the meadow as a tick white furry carpet; otherwise he would not have missed the large rock.

All went quick. And slow. The child fell backward. The tiger leapt over him. Mitchell discovered that deep inside him, some very old reflex had been awaken. Somewhere in his genes, an ice age hunter told him to hold the stake at the right handle, jump on the tiger and dig and dig and dig it again and again in the beast side.

The tiger had stopped moving. He could not believe what he had done. From below, a hand was gingerly moving the dead cat heavy body over him. Eee-Shaa-l could not believe it. He was alive, alive. Praise the Gods, praise wonderful Meet-Shell. Now that was a real hunter. How stupid, crassly stupid had Eee-Shaa-l been? He owed his very life to Meet-Shell.

A quick hand move with the dagger and one canine was out.

One minute, you are fighting for dear life with a very, very big tiger, next thing; your hunting mate is presenting you a fang for your necklace collection. McNair would have loved that kid.

Eee-Shaa-l was not going to accept this ridiculous modesty. The tiger tooth was belonging to his savior. That was it.

Suddenly, the air was full of sounds. Other hunters appeared, spears, axes, and a complete hunting party. They were commenting on the dead cat. Head shakes, back slappings. Hard slapping, those people did not do elegance. If you are happy, show it, that was their motto. As fast as they could, since the night was soon to come, they lifted the dead cat body back to the camp.

A large hall welcomed the hunters. With a fire at the centre. Fire at least. The group had now removed the de rigueur fur hood covering their head. Long hair, braided hair, beards. But for the face, the women hair styles were about the same. He could see Eeschall back discussing with some older women. As if the youth had felt the Irish man over him, Eee-Shaa-l turned to him.

A face he knew. Same blue eyes, fairer skin, but no surprise here. Her descendants had not yet discovered the West Indies. Same mischievous smile. Same shy smile. The group of old crones swallowed her from his astonished eyes.


	6. Chapter 6

As the days moved into months, the ex-vampire improved his understanding of the language of his tribe. Some accents were elusive; some words were complicated. Some were unable to be translated. Colours could be simple, warm was just warm, they did not know about hot and scalding hot. But they had twenty four ways to describe the sound of a flying arrow and the way snow fell was described in at least fourteen versions. Eeschall was a most kind teacher.

Mitchell, none the less, was doing his best to avoid her. From the moment, he sort of recognized her, he decided at the same time the Powers that be would not play with him again. He knew how the game ended. Lost it in 1916, lost it not long ago. Why would they suppose that by sending him back in a time where vampires did not exist, he would forget their twisted sick plot? Get it, I lose the girl.

Left at his own devices, he was able to enjoy the life of those hardy ice age hunters. They hunted big and small game, brought back the meat to the rest of the tribe, ate, slept and back to work, back to hunting the next day. One did not live very long. Hunting injuries were often deadly; small snouted bears were top predators, along the snow lions or tigers. Wild wolves, packs ended up the life of unwary lost hunters. Mammoths seemed to be something of a legend. Yet an old woman showed him a small statue made of ivory from a mammoth tooth. Her grandfather had killed the owner of said tooth, so she said.

The small carving was revered as the Goddess of Plenty. She was bringing children to the barren ones, food to the starving ones when the hunt had not been successful, etc. Their lives evolved around gods and goddesses...and interdictions.

A woman flow was for Mother Earth; hence the woman was off limits. Hunters without companions were not allowed to sleep in the female hall. Healers could not be hunters. And hunters gave you sore looks if you made their women laugh. That, he learnt very quickly.

Eeschall whatever was her name, lived with the single ladies. The way her clothes were made and sewn cried female hunter. Ever so sorry, he was not aware of the dress codes when he met this proto-Annie. Her descendant would have been horrified at the limitation of clothing choices. The game girl was happily plucking game, fleecing fur from dead animals. Annie, who had no more as ever swatted a fly, had an ancestor who killed along other hunters and who was proud to show the notches of her dagger.

Hunters avoided killing each other, but in times where game was rare, clans could fight against each others to try and still potential hunting territories. No other choice but kill the warrior who opposed the survival of your own clan. You killed quickly without hate, you thanked the gods to be alive, and you killed the next game to honour the fallen.

"You knew the people from the cave, the cavern when you saved me"

"Those are evil creatures, like the Night One. You remember?"

"It was not a lion or a bear?"

"No, no, no, I am sure I said it, it was a night creature. Bad, bad"

They had their own monsters, then. Unknown monsters. But not werewolves. The smell had been much different. About smell, everyone was...err...pungent. Acrid was a neat way to describe it. No soap. No bathing facility. Hand wash in the snow was quick because of the low temperature. No shower, no shampoo. His hair was a total mess. To shave was impossible without help with dubious results by the way. He had tried to help another single hunter. He would not have been happy with the result if a barber had messed with him that way. Anyhow, his victim had been quite content. It seemed the aim was to reduce the amount of human hair, not to reach the skin.

George, as a werewolf was hairy. George, my friend, if you could see me, I am now way hairier than you. Plus you can keep the jeans; they are unsuitable in the Ice Age. George, his friend, how he missed him. He could not share the jokes, all what he now knew about those people. IQ George would have been able to tell him about this clan. Why some mysterious taboos. George, George, Why can't I carry Annie spears?

Since their return, Eeschall was always occupied. She had to hunt small game, tender, juicy game for some elder or another; then she had to collect some roots for the healer of the clan, or she had to clean the skins.

"Go away, Meet-shell, this is not your place, this is not right, you should not be here. "

If he had not heard once, he heard it all along the winter months. Suited him. Suited him to a certain point. He could not prevent his eyes to follow her from under his eyebrows. When she went hunting, he happened to be in the nearby wood. Whereas when she went collecting the buds or roots the shaman wanted, he developed in interest in botany.

Some elders gave him looks. If looks could kill, he should have been dead since a very long time, old man. Others more benevolent giggled. This was a lot more embarrassing.

His usual excuse was that Eeschall was teaching him the clan "voice".

No tea, no coffee, no pub, no beer. Plenty of snow to drink. No milk, that was for the infants. Many infants died that winter. This did not seem to worry the healer. Some die, Meet-schell, that is the way. The Sun God will send their souls back, this time with a stronger body. Some women died in childbirth, a lot in childbirth. The vampire could not believe how many women would die in those days because one day a stupid man had been a bit careless.

Though they were not, not careless that is. They knew nothing of contraception. No condoms for you, Mitchell, my lad. The opposite, indeed. More children, more hunters, more territories. Men were supposed to sire children; women were supposed to open their legs and get pregnant. The old ones made sure, the Old Ones? Wyndham would have had a heart attack if he knew what old meant in this world which now was his. Forty years, fifty years at best! At 24, he was within a few years to claim his Ice Age pension!

Where was he? The Old crones. George, the Old Ones, they keep some sort of record of who sleeps with who. As to avoid you sleeping with your sister, no, that you would know, with your cousin which naturally is taboo.

The women his age were about all entered in some sort of relationship. Sleeping with their partner in the married couples's tent. The single ones were not for any hunter if the woman said no. Some young hunters were not thrilled to see competition. No worry, guys. I am out. Out of it. Tell that to his dreams.

When he was not dreaming about his staking, he was reliving Hell. And waking up his companions. More than often, he was dreaming of her, of them, the women in his life. The women, he had felt sure who were Her. How many had been really Her?

Josie must have been some sort of echo, because Annie was there.

Lucy, no! She mimicked the words, she copied the pose; the shell was empty.

Annie, naturally, who was like her, like two peas in a pod.

Plus Eeschall, who had no agenda, no interest in him. Eeschall who carried her own spears and laughed at him when he was getting too close for his own sanity.

Eeschall was not able to make sense of Meet-shell. The man was a mystery. One day, he was all over her, trying to carry her bow and arrows, like she had braided his hair. The next day, she was seeing only his back while he was passionately listening at one of the men boring hunt story. The men, the boys. Always trying to impress each other. My deer is bigger than yours. Now, me, I have killed a real bear.

Meet-schell, to his defence, was not trying to impress anyone. He was modest about the lion. A good listening companion; somewhat daft too. The way he was sniffing around, one would have thought he smelled something rotten around. Unknown to him, she had tried to smell if something was wrong. Despite her effort, the clan odour was perfectly normal, healthy. If anything, it smelled the odour of her tribe. Dried wild flowers mixed in boar fat smelled right.

The elders had accepted the new hunter; but remained wary of him. Hunters belonged to clans; to be alone meant two things: either you were stupid to hunt far and alone or suicidal and that was the same thing, either you had been banished by your clan. Meet-schell had weird ways, but not an imbecile. Ostracized by his clan was the likely solution of this hunter. Led to the Cursed Ones for some crime, yes, must have been a big offence. A very serious taboo must have been broken.

If the elders welcome had been tepid, the young girls had been more enthusiastic. Thank you, ladies. I am not into it, thank you. Learning the skills of an Ice Age man, learning about this brand new world was exhausting. When night came, he welcomed the sleep. No night hunt shift, no more cleaning, this lost world rules compared favourably against his 21st century.

Some evenings, they would all gather, some old tabbies would weave tales of wonder to frighten the children and hurry them to sleep under their furred covers, safe under the warm tents; some hunters would participate explaining some cunning successes in face of overturned doom. Sometime, girls would sing. Well, try to sing. When it came to music, this world knew nothing about it; the closest they came to it was a miserable bone flute with 3 notes. End of the program, no movie theatre, no real hustle, no radio, no internet! No Nothing. Just a fire glowing, a sweaty attendance and storytelling. One could not have it all.

Eeschall laughter rose from the cluster of young women. Must not turn head.

The next day, hunt again. Soon spring would be coming, and time to gather the much needed plants and roots for the rest of the year. 3 short months of a warmer climate and back to winter. He watched her leave the camp. Snow rabbit hunting. He would leave later. Reindeer's tracks had been found. He did not like it when she was on her own. At risk of another meeting with a predator, which this time, would not have his meal order overturned by the Irish man.

He carried on polishing some flint arrows, when he noticed another hunter following the same route she had taken. He knew the man, an unpleasant man, who thrived on hurting people with words. Some sort of proto-Owen. He hated Owen with all his soul, though without him, he probably would have never found Her again. No ghost, no pink house to rent, no Annie.

Without hurry, he followed him. What was his beef with Eeschall? Where was he in that wood; he was feeling lost when he heard the angry voice. The hunter towering the woman was having a rare go. Annie, pluck to the back bone was answering back. Most words were above his understanding, yet the message was clear. Get out; I am so not into you. I want you, now and I mean it. The man was now shaking her forcefully. That was it, mate.

Tully would never know how lucky he had been when Mitchell found her in the shadowed alley. He would have been killed werewolf or not. Now, this Mitchell, in this world was showing this Owen, what Big Bad John could do to any one, hear me, anyone who dared messing with his woman. The two men snarled at each other, with-holding no punch.

It was primeval. Two males, one female. As usual, the woman had a soft spot for one of the 2 guys. They fought. The vampire foot slid under some irregularity under the snow carpet. The bastard pulled a cutlass, Eeschall threw a rock at him, berating him for this major breach of etiquette in Ice Age courtship. Mitchell wiped the blood from his lips. His ears were still ringing from the blows; but the worse was his left eye. It hurt, A lot.

It did not hurt a lot. She hugged him, like if he had saved her from a horrible fate. He resisted the urgent need. She was pronouncing some mysterious blabber, but her smile was easy to understand. Jesus. How to explain that he was not, could not be, would not be, or just a little bit, yes just friend, just good friend, only friend...

From the depth of time, wisdom has it that man offers, woman chooses. While the lost man was trying to avoid temptation, his temptress had made up her mind. What Meet-schell needed was encouragement. If she put her hands around his neck like that, and tilted her head just like that, rising her lips toward his like that, and look at him under her lashes like that, the man would...God, he was lost, he felt his neck bending his head and his mind closing shut to any message but the notion he had to taste those lips...


	7. Chapter 7

Surrender is not an act of cowardice. More often than not, it is a careful, calculated move to the unavoidable. Resist if and when you can; when all the cards are against you, give in. Jesus! It was good giving in. The soft pressure against his own lips was driving him sweetly mad. Intoxicating. It was like kissing snow, like kissing someone out in the cold. Which woke him up  
>from his trance. He had been there before. He remembered all too well, the kiss in her room in the Pink House in Bristol. The house where he had believed he could be human again. It was them all over again. The Powers that Be. Playing with him,<br>toying with him. He might be the mouse, but the cat was going to find his toy was not compliant. Pushing her away as gently as can be, he tried the age old excuse of being carried away, which was not received kindly. He could not blame her. Eeschall picked up her belongings and left him. Would have left him, if a stupid, a very stupid part of him had not grasped her hand and dragged her back in his arms. Now, he was truly in hot water.

Let's sit, let's try to explain to this lovely girl that I am not the guy for her before she starts mentioning the word fate. Someone is playing with us, love. Yes, we are the possessions of the Gods. But...yes, but...This was pointless; the more he tried to explain why their relationship was doomed, the more ecstatic she was. To be told that they had been lovers since forever, time travel, Hell, it was all was perfectly normal. Quite thrilling. Chilly in truth if all free actions were but pre-ordained. They left the meadow, hand in hand, Eeschall bubbling with joy, Mitchell with a very heavy heart. First set: Powers that Be.

Spring was near; the men were starting to go through the equipment for spring game, a lighter spear, but more hatchets. The women were brushing less furry garments; children were starting to spend more time outside the tents. Something  
>was in the air. Everyone was starting to get out more and more. Enjoying the sun's pale rays, a sky where less snow was falling. The warm milder season was coming.<p>

It was dark, he was in Hell, the "rope" had encircled itself around his chest, the nasty fangs were going to bite his chest and rub this green branch on it. Mitchell pushed the leafy branch from his face and the kid who was waving it; yes, he was awake. Yes, this is spring. Thank you, this was just his 118th spring, such a new fascinating experience. Stretching his back, pushing away  
>the fur rug, in which he had got tangled up, he pulled his hair away from his face. Between the beard and the rest, he must have been looking a right mess.<p>

This time, he was able to look at his reflection. The first time since - since how long, 95 years? , he had seen his actual physical real life human form, he had jumped. The ice wall was not the best of mirrors, but better than nothing. What was looking at him was a tall, black, tangled, greasy mass of hair with a  
>rather long black beard, towering leather clothes, like a native North American tribesman, wearing very tall boots. Was he still him, still the Irish soldier, turned Irish vampire? How long since had he heard decent English? His lips pronounced his name.<p>

- "My name is John Mitchell, I am from Dublin, and I was born in 1893 and died in 2011. But because the Powers that be are crap, I am also alive some thirty thousand years ago, or fifty thousand, is it? I like to enjoy a very long life!"

This was English enough. He did not hear his accent, but it was good proper English. And the few inches of skin he could see were fair. He still had his Celtic rings on; the fingerless gloves had fallen from his hands in Hell. Too many scratches had ruined the fabric. He did not miss them; fingerless gloves, George, impractical in an ice Age. Mittens on the other, quite the thing, if you wanted to keep said fingers attached to the rest of your body in that cold.

He got up from his allotted couch, moved his stiff neck around and got dressed, or more dressed to be accurate. You slept in your underwear; your clothes and your outer wear unless you planned to freeze. Not true, you could always add an extra garment if you felt a bit cold, he supposed. Pushing aside the large leather cloth which covered the entrance, his affronted glance met with a surprising sight.

The space between the three larger tents was now a grooming ground; some women were busy combing, brushing, and braiding their partners' hair, while some men were doing the same to their companions. Was this the Ice Age version of March madness?  
>Spring comes, and you feel compelled to trim the abundant mane covering your scalp? He was not that crazy about his own sorry hairy mess, but transforming the rudimentary village into a barber shop was beyond his comprehension. With a deep sigh, he collected his hatchet, a dagger or two and left quietly<br>by the other end of the tent. Somehow, he knew that going out to meet the clan barbering party was going to cause problems and God, he did not need more than he had on his plate.

He walked between the bushes and the fallen branches, hearing some birds in the distance. It was the best music he had heard for a long, long time. Birds calling each other and...faint foot steps behind him. He slowly raised his axe  
>and... let it fall slowly.<p>

- "Eeschall, I must have told you thousand times: do not approach without calling me first. Girl, an accident can happen; those axes are meant to kill..."

The young woman was looking at him with serious eyes. She had something to say that she could not say; hesitating, she was playing with her long hair, twisting the end of her braid again and again.

- "It is braiding time"

- "Yeah, I've seen that. Good for them."

- "You do not want to have your hair trimmed?"

- "Possibly one day. Not today"

The girl was now almost in tears. He sighed in desperation. He was sorry for her and himself. Again one of those mysterious taboos; he must have broken more taboos in less than a year than this entire clan population in a century. He sat on a large fallen tree stump. As she remained standing up, he pulled her gently to sit by him. 

- "Is it that important, that today, all of a sudden, I get myself a haircut?"

The nod was clear, it was important with a capital I.

- "Can't I do it alone, or with another hunter?"

The look of horror was a clear indication his answer was not the expected one.

- "Can't we do it here? Would you help me?"

A rosy blush to her cheeks accompanied the shy nodding. The strong pull to go back to the direction of the camp was not what he had expected. Cutting his hair was one thing; being part of an experimental theatre show about grooming was another, Ice Age or not.

- "I cannot do it in the forest, you know that. Firstly, it would show we are ashamed, secondly, it would be quite dangerous"

Cutting and getting one's hair in a braid dangerous and shameful? In a wood? Those people had really weird social codes. Even George would not have understand, repeating his "What What" song into an impressive ululation. Nina, on the contrary, would have been busy trimming her George's hair very efficiently. Nina was good at keeping normalcy in the household. Nina...and  
>the baby. She was probably Mrs Sands by now; he was sure she had decided to become Mrs Sands from the day Mr Sands had caught her attention.<p>

- "OK; I'll come. But it will be in the tent!"

What had he said that made her look at him with those basilic eyes. This morning, nothing he was saying was meeting with her approval.

- "Eeschall, I am a shy guy and I do not think the clan is interested by what I am doing or not doing"

- "Nobody looks at what one does in the tent, Meet-schell really, your tribe must have some social habits of a very, I mean very weird nature"

This dialogue persisted all throughout their return to the camp. At the end, the two young lovers were looking at each other with exasperation. Mitchell would be damned if he let his hair be cut in front of the clan while Eeschall was offended he thought her the kind of girl who was ashamed to show to her Clan that it was this special man's hair she wanted to cut.

The incomprehension would have lasted a long time if by now couples, quite a few, weren't entering the large tent of the married couples. Married, he did not know; well Ice  
>Age Marriage slashed approved relationship. Then it dawned on him what Eeschall had been trying to tell him all along since the beginning of the day. Caught between the devil and the deep blue sea, both notions he would never ever be able to explain to his prospective bride, he tried as men have always done<br>since the beginning of time to avoid the unavoidable. Never had so many words rushed out.

- "Eeschall, love, I am so sorry. I did not mean to offend you. My…my tribe's customs are different. We…err…we do not …em…do that this way. We take more time. It is a serious decision. We are young, babe; we have all the time of the world, there is no rush. Beside, your family has probably a thing or two to say. Importantly, I am not one of your clansmen. You deserve so much better than me. I am poor, my hunting skills are not great and I am an embarrassment to you when it comes to fleece…"

He was drowning; her eyes were thundering. If he was not already dead, he would have been dead by now, fleeced alive, staked, crucified. In one swift second. He was not ready, not yet, not now of all times. He was only 24, no 25, possibly 26. Marriage was out of the equation. Not that he was opposed fundamentally to the notion. He was just, you know, not that into it yet. Fact was that he was pretty sure he had read somewhere in the thick vampire rules book that blood suckers do not do weddings. At all. Not yet, Eeschall. Nothing personal. Just. Not. Ready. Yet.

Someone else had noticed the hesitant dance between the lovers. Someone else was not hesitant. If the blasted outcast was unable to make up his mind, "he" was ready to oblige the lady. It had been clear from the very beginning, the man was happy to charm the ladies; when it came to the crunch, he was running  
>away scared to commit. "He" was happy to commit, "he" would ask Eeschall to braid "his" hair, proudly, as an honour. Together, they would enter the grand hall. That should teach a lesson or two to the damned foreigner.<p>

Hurt, she was hurt. This man was playing with her, with her love. One second, she thought she knew that man, next she did not know him anymore. He would protect her from the unwelcome attentions of that silly, stupid, big oaf. The oaf she did not want in her life. She tried another way around this…this stubborn hunter. She started again, suddenly fascinated by the stitches on his coat, following the symbols with a finger, like trying to read the letters of a book, from an alphabet not yet written.

- "Meet-schell, are you…you know, in your own clan?"

- "?..?...!. No, no. There is no one for me in my clan. There was someone but she is dead"

Her eyes went sad. She was grieving for him, for her. For her unknown descendant, who was technically dead, but alive, very much alive. Thinking of her other "her" would lead nowhere.

His right hand caressed her cheek, as to lift up the clouds that was turning them misty. Stop it, mate. Averting his gaze, he realized that his action had been observed by the other hunter, the one who had tried to assault his Eeschall. If he didn't do something quick, the other would feel free to impose himself on his girl. His girl! A year or was it 2 years ago, this Dog McNair  
>had had the…the nerve to comment on his girl, on the way he,…, he was dealing with Annie. His girl was his, whether her name was Annie, Eeschall or…the name of that woman he was not going to think about. What he was doing with, about, around<br>his girl was his damned business and nobody else's business, thank you.

He did not care if this was going to be the death of him. He seized the woman's hand manfully, pulled her behind him while he was walking at great strides to the centre of the camp, sat on what served as a bench, challenging anyone who entertained the teeniest of doubt that the lady was his.

That was how I got married George. You understand, mate. It isn't that I didn't want you to be my best man. It is that one thing about our wedding photos; it would have looked strange that the groom plus the bride were missing. Vampires and ghosts do not show on print. It is better like that. You marry your Nina, with your families around, all regular and live people. Us, the dead and un-dead, we prefer exotic locations. Like time travel and real climate change where we are finally both alive together though about forty thousand years before your birth.

George, where are you? Because if I am here with Annie, you must be somewhere around. Are you in Palestine? Probably yes. If he knew Georgie Boy, this proto-friend was somewhere kneeling by a strange wild weed, scratching his head and wondering if something could be done about the seeds. It is called flour, George.

Somewhere too, Nina must exist. In that world, the couple would never ever meet. Rubbing his beard, the best image he could conjure up about the nurse was a position like some sort of healer, druid, and witch? Nina the Witch! That pleased him. Because she had been an evil witch to him.

For now, smiling and worried sick inside, he was sitting in the middle of the village, like a grinning idiot, while an Ice Age maiden was using some very sharp instruments very close to his neck. Being human meant being able to die…again! Those knives were used to fleece game; those knives had been cleaned with a quick rub in the snow. What about contamination, infection? They were used by the whole community; they may have had some sort of transmitted disease, air borne, blood borne! Might be a good idea to call the wedding off.

The bride may not have been aware of the ideas running through her groom mind, but she knew fear and this man was getting more and more terrified by the minute. She firmly held this mane of his and pulled it apart. Ouch! Good! Better be in pain than start thinking silly fears. She plodded on pulling each strand of hair, while her brand new husband was realizing that who would be the boss in his marriage was not a set thing.

After a lot of pulling, tossing, shaking, tearing, (and laughing, the minx, he felt sure of that), he looked at his feet covered with strands and locks. Cheeks a lot less stubbly but still quite a lot even by his standards, hair shorter if a bit irregular, some sort of pony tail, and what was that?

How handsome did he look! Those gorgeous shoulders, those eyes. She was melting like snow. Now what was the silly boy doing?

- "Do not touch that, it is very pretty. It took me ages to fit them on"

- "I was on the receiving end. Remember?

Eyes still watery from the Turkish treatment his scalp had just been through, he was tenderly stroking whatever remaining intact piece of head was still in place. A bead, no two beads, ok, a few beads, like that actor of the pirate flick. She had made him looked like fucking Johnny Depp. Great. Well, his pains  
>were thanked by the biggest sunniest happiest smile she could give. Like the smile she gave him that evening, after he had freed her from purgatory. A shy and happy smile, not sure of where she stood, but standing nonetheless.<p>

He stood up, a poster boy for trendy Ice Age fashion. What was next?

He should not have asked the question. The answer was standing right under his nose. Wrong, that was getting wrong, worse and worse every second. His eyes were trying to look wildly at anything but what was standing him front of him. The blasted proto-McNair was positively sniggering.

This morning was a day where he should have stayed asleep all day and all night. A day not to go through, a black day. His wedding day. Was it like that, George? That sinking feeling there is no hope left for you, that you will regret forever that moment of madness when all you wanted was to make this person  
>happy. Not that you want this person you cherish to be unhappy, it is not even the freedom. It is the imbecile belief that you can make this person you hold so dear happy. How thick can I be, George, she looks at me like I knew all the answers? I do not have any damned answers. The last time I sat an exam was about 100 years ago at the seminary, George. Those were the days when speaking Latin was major stuff!<p>

Here he goes again. My hero is again in the dumps. Why such deep knitted brows, beloved? Look, it is spring all around. The snow is melting. Birds are flying. The branches of the couple's hall are showing. You and I are an item, what could go wrong!

Pretending to be as happy as she was, he followed the bouncy girl to the huge tent. Now, this was gross, man. They were, she was expecting him to…do his thing…in front of everyone? The obscurity of the tent was welcoming and warm, very warm. Moist, as you would expect if about 10 men plus the added females were busy doing their own thing at the very same moment. Grunts, smells, shadows, darkness. How lovely. The simple thought of it was enough to provoke a wave of nausea. Cursed, that was it. In real life with Annie, "it" was not possible; now that it was possible... No way ever was he going to enter into that…that…

Pushed in the back, he stumbled on the uneven floor, hurting his leg. Now, that was an idea. A few days ago, a wild boar has brushed his tusks a bit too close to the Irish man's right leg. Good reminder of his mortal status. An angry scar would be the reminder not to mess with ham, for a long time! He rubbed the leg longer than it needed and started walking with a pronounced limp.

The room was divided into sections, the walls rudimentary leather skins. A 5 star country hotel. What was coming with the room service, a raw bear paw? She carried on pushing, guiding him through the shadow. At least he had a guide, otherwise, better not think of it. This would have been a hell of a threesome!

Finally, they reached their destination. Good. At least their cubicle had some light showing through the branches covered with flat stones and more leathered skins. When it rained or snowed, they would have running water in their flat. Lousy plumbing for eternity.

Silence was growing between them. Each lost in thoughts they could not share with the other, they sat on the floor. At least some one had left the carpet. He would have to say something, anything, but what? One can pretend a headache for so long, or a wounded leg. Would that count? Lia, whose magic had made a debacle of his sex life on Earth, was still pretty active. Eeschall was attractive. He wanted her very much; his "business" was getting uncomfortable. Back against the wall, he gamely tried an opener.

- "Err...How do you know this is the fashion for men, this year, with those beads?"

The result was along the same lines as the Ventriloquism idea. Jesus, where did these words come from? A stand up act in Paris during the war? His war? In the Ice Age, he was offering as a gambit a discussion on hair style. Please. If she did not smack his face, he was lucky.

After having disposed of her jacket, blouse, and upper coat and revealed a pair of breasts possibly not for page 3, but with the proper requirements, Eeschall was now advancing toward the frightened rabbit who was speaking nonsense.

- "Have you noticed? Em...We shall have to repair the roof. Is it normal that we get the cubicle with the leaky roof?"

She was now straddling him.

- "Do not be ashamed, Meet-schell, there is nothing to be ashamed of!"

- "...?"

- "You are still a virgin, aren't you?"

Happy people do not make headlines. From that day, Mitchell's life was as uneventfully human as he had been wishing for since a very long time, even before 1917. Eeschall at his side made him feel ready to fight all the dragons, the horrors, the monsters he could ever, would ever face and destroy each and every one of them. The only hunger he felt was when he was really hungry, the thirst when his mouth was dry; as for emotions and love, the love of his girl was fulfilling all his needs. The only true worry in the back of his mind was to stay alive as long as he could in an era where life span was limited at the very best to be a sexagenarian. Yeah, live long. With her. He felt immortal, despite knowing that he had lost the ability. There was not the shadow of one problem. At all. Not one. Ever. 

That is if you discounted a minor issue. Just a little teeny bit of a worry. OK, a worry, a big worry, an enormous problem; the worst ever danger known to mankind, since there was a mankind. Not only mankind by the way, as dogs and wolves shared the same concern. Their mate, their mate's tendency to insist on reproducing, having children, babies. They were happy, they were young, and there was no need to fret. This was, now, the third month she had decided to slash her wrist over the Goddess.

Do what? She had explained patiently, like a teacher facing a very stupid child, that this was the way, the proper way. If you wanted to conceive, if you failed to conceive, the best way was to give some of your own blood to the Goddess, so she would, in turn, stop you from bleeding every month. Voila, magic, and baby was popping out of the oven. This was not science in infancy, this was bloody ridiculous. Cutting oneself over and over again was not self-harming; it was sound evidence-based, Nobel Prize medicine. He pleaded, he pouted, he solemnly forbad. Nothing penetrated her. Their friends had all conceived, some had even started a second, a third time around! Did he realize that everyone was looking at them with pity?

Some girls were whispering there was a problem with her; no, there was not. Worse, the elders had started muttering that possibly, either their union was cursed - no, not again - or that they had broken an unknown taboo; please, not that.

Either way, if no child blessed them soon, she would have to debraid his hair. Divorce; whatever was that strange word, yes, they would be forbidden to speak to each other again, forever.

After the honeymoon night, Mitchell had remembered belatedly that condoms did not exist. Though, there always was the possibility of asking politely a passing deer to give a bit of his gut, dry it, clean it, thin it, sew an end and use it as a DIY contraceptive device. Somehow, this idea was catalogued as a flight of fancy. This left him with the responsibility of becoming the adult of their couple, the sexual health expert, and the doctor. He had to, he must, he had no other choice but try and remember what he had read about, watched on telly, heard in the hospital corridors about contraception. His very unblushing bride, having been reassured that this fool of hers was not an innocent, was rather surprised when her partner started asking very personal questions. Next, she watched him carving the nearest tree with 28 notches, muttering the language of his tribe. An arrow here, yes, day 1; a cross here, day 14. Nina, Nina, where are you when I need you. Yes, I need you. Give and take, three, four, five days? Each side. 10 days, be generous. Less risks. Meet-schell was so happy. And wise. She had prayed only to her Gods, thus offending his. From now on, she would also worship the representation of her man's God. With the blessings of all the pantheon of Gods, their union should shortly be blessed. Clueless as to why, Eeschall brought flowers as the tree decorated with an ovulation chart; Mitchell had stubbornly followed his plan. No babies, not yet. The winter season had begun with its wake of miscarriages, stillbirths and deaths. This plan was going to work till they had found a decent midwife. Not before. Not until the ultimatum.

- "How long do they give us?"

- "Three moons. Then we shall go to the Great tent, I shall unbraid your hair and you will throw in the fire the tie which binds it. From then, we shall sleep apart you in the men's tent, me with the women"

His choice. Put her life at risk, see her die, and lose her. Lose her, see her forever out of his reach and lose her again because another bastard would make sure to impregnate her. Some choice, hah!

- "We, err, we shall find a solution. I mean, we will have children. Do not worry, I shall make sure."

Ironically, the three months had almost gone and they were facing the same problem. Was he the problem? Never, ever before had he tried to become a father; not when he was alive, though he had thought about it, a lot more than he had admitted in the Pink House kitchen. After his death, vampires being notoriously sterile, progeny was out of the equation. Thank God for that, otherwise the Irish un-dead would have had to pay top record child support to his manifold lovers probably. Come to think of it, in almost 100 years of unchecked sexual intercourse, the likelihood of a few vamp babies was statistically pretty high.

This digression was fruitless, as sterile as him. Despite the falling snow (again, how come he was not surprised), he walked to the tree. Taking out his cutlass, he started in a rage to slice out any carving of this stupid plan of his. So much for science. Told you Nina, I could deal with it. Look at me, I dealt with it, and now I am enjoying the fruits of my labour.

Crushed snow sounds, footsteps. He knew that sound. Deep inside, he knew and feared what she was going to tell him. Already, she was taking precautions, walking slowly, steadily. No use rushing about when your life is going to be changed forever and you say goodbye to the person you love. He was a Catholic for God sake, Catholics do not divorce. He would tell the Elders. In his tribe, they did not do Un-braiding. Tough. Live with it.

Eeschall was looking at him, smiling, proud, and very proud. So you like it.? This decision, you find it normal? Well, I don't. I am not going to let them take you from me. I do not care if it is taboo, if we are out cast. I keep you. We stay together.

This was her big day. Already, in the female tent, the old women had shaken their heads and they were cackling, approving the young woman. Yes, you can tell him. It is time.

He was angry. His eyes were like shooting flames under his brows. She took his left hand when she noticed the slashed wood.

- "What are you doing? He is going to be very, very angry at us"

He let his hand down, slid back the knife under his belt. To find that both his hands were now solidly held by hers. And brought to touch her body, her abdomen. She looked at him with a serene smile.

- "I told you not to worry. We have been blessed, Meet-schell, your God has blessed our union."

This world was possibly Paradise. But a Paradise with a lot of snakes. Constant battles, never ever peace and quiet. The next step would be probably to panic every succeeding month a bit more until the total crash. A father. He was going to be a father. He knew nothing, zilch, nada. His father had been...been dead before his own birth, his childhood experience was more than one hundred years old, and all which was relevant to child rearing was unavailable due to the PTB resurrection of himself in a time where there was no electricity, no internet and no NHS. To know the sex of the child was the least of his concerns; boy, girl, it was all the same to him as long as all went well.

The prospective toothless midwife was far from winning him over. Her assistants looked like Macbeth Act 1 party girls; there was strictly speaking no hygiene at all. Football, George, is not a problem. Making sure all goes well, is the Problem. George, who was so sure it was a boy. Must have been a Gina. Girl, boy, whatever. Those ultrasound mad couples, what did they expect, a rabbit? She had vomited every morning, dutifully, making him feel sick with apprehension in return. So nauseous in the afternoon, that he had held her tight in his arms, gently rocking her. His parents had been wise; they would likewise do the same. An only child was his plan for the future.

She was getting so pale, she was losing weight; she was also getting amazing boobs.  
>One cannot lose on everything. Months went by slowly. Her shape started to change, way more slowly than Nina's. Had he missed something there? This was to remain a mystery. The most amazing mystery was the day she drew his hand to her now quite distended abdomen and let him feel something deep inside gently moving. At first, he had touched wondering what it was. Feeling strictly nothing, but pretending if that would make her smile. It was sudden; like when you move your hands separately underwater and you feel the movement of the other hand; or better still, like when you feel a fish tail move when you try to catch it.<p>

He had forgiven Nina, he had even forgiven Herrick. He was at peace with the world. His world was covered in snow; it was freezing, some days food was scarce. But he had his woman, under his hand this child of his was alive and one day, this child would laugh as loud as can be, while his father would hold him or her so high it would touch the sky. He had missed his father; he knew his father had planned to be there for his mother and him. But life had had other plans; the dark haired young man could only leave as a constant memory the colour and the curls of his hair to his son. Said son planned to live a very long life and be around this kid, till kid was sick and tired of having said father around.

The time was nearing now. She was getting very slow, waddling through the branches. She had stopped hunting a long time ago - since he had threatened to break her bow if he found her ever hunting again. Submitting to her forceful partner, she had complied, but not without some stormy attempts at rebellion. Today was probably the last time she would leave the camp. She wanted to collect a few early plants, spring would come and this time a child would be in her arms. She needed to produce as much milk as possible for the baby. Their baby. Accepting that he had lost this argument both had entered the quiet woods. The forest was silent, only their footsteps could be heard.

Some other footsteps too. Quite a few, around them, encircling them. What the fuck was that? Another tribe? A hostile clan? A wild wolf pack? Snow hyena pack? Eeschall went behind him, while he raised his spear. He was going to give as good as he was going to get.

There was no way; he and this prehistoric slut could escape. The vampire and his pagan consort. What a lovely ideal couple. Bedding every man available, opening her legs without chastity, praying to every available false God, believing in devils made up by her own mind. His stomach was turning at the sight of the nine month pregnant abdomen. Her only redeeming quality was that she was born some thirty or forty thousand years before Bethlehem.

As for the vampire, he was going to be treated as fitted his quality. Hell was his destination. Direction 54: a freezing Hell level where the monsters were human. Beside the cold would not surprise him much, isn't it!

When he saw the men, he knew that his taste of paradise was coming to an end. The cops dressed in gray thick winter wear were surrounding him and coming steadily closer. He could feel her fear and God he was just as terrified. More terrified than when he had been in the cage. The cage had saved his life from the werewolves; this time, there was no cage to save him.

Eee-Shaa-l knew, those were his clan's men, they had come for him, they were going to kill him; they would find that Eee-Shaa-l was not one to refuse a fight.

The men circled them closer and closer, until they jumped on him. He fought as much as he could, trying to use his axe, but was overpowered. The last thing he saw before oblivion was Eeschall facing a gun held by that crack head religious bigot.


	8. Chapter 8

The grey one pushed away the pregnant woman who fell on her back.  
>Next, he was lying on the floor, hands bound, in a helicopter while Kemp was comfortably seated.<p>

- "In a few minutes, you will be back where you should never have left"

- "Hell has holes, not exactly spit spot perfect locked up roomy, who knew?"

He knew those voices; he knew those people hated him. He had killed one, but he had never hurt any of Kemp relations, yet for the priest this was personal?  
>- "Why, Lia, why my..., why Annie?"<p>

- "To see you eternally suffering is the payback for you stealing my life, my youth. I was a witch. Being young was a bonus. Now, because of you, I'm dead. You stole my life, you stole my youth. I steal your life, I kill your love. I cursed you Mitchell, body and soul united for my eternity"

For Eternity. For Eternity, each time he found love, every time, whether he was a monster or a good, decent man, he would love and lose his beloved soul mate. He was cursed and the curse spread to the ones he loved. The only way to protect them was to give them the widest berth ever. Once he loved, he best disappeared. An eternity of loneliness was the price to save them, to save her. Possibly, if he played well the very poor cards he had been given, possibly if he concentrated her hate only on him, he could save his lover, his friends…  
>The rest of the flight over the ice world remained uneventful. The two Greys were keen on jabbing him more with sarcasm, but he remained silent. Better let them abuse him.<p>

The longer they concentrated on him, the better it was for Annie and her many re-incarnations. As long as he avoided looking for her, however cruel that was, she would live happy, protected from him, protected from the curse. And he knew how to end it. Once inside the cave, back to Destination 54, he would call the assistant. Better to die, to be erased. To know that the love of his life was saved was good enough for him. For him, death was the logical course.

- "That delightful and entertaining cold place of yours"

The worst part of a nightmare is waking up realizing that it was better not to be awake. He had regained consciousness pushed around like a puppet in a weird looking helicopter. A forest of boots affronted his eyes. Unable to stand up, he tried again to pull on the cords holding his frame.

- "Was your winter holiday a pleasant experience? Not everyone is able to visit Prehistoric Wales."

- "Where is the woman who was with me?"

- "The girl? I am afraid I cannot answer. I suppose the hyenas we disturbed when we landed must have taken care of here"

- "She is pregnant!"

- "She consorted with the Devil, she was bearing the child of a demon...300 years ago, and she would have been burnt alive. By beast or through human hands, either way, she had to die"

This was too much; this was the last and final act. The PTB had given him everything he had ever wanted, a normal life, a family, peace. And they had destroyed everything he had touched .All he had was the memory, again, the lonely cruel memory of a time when he was happy. They could keep it; he was not going to fight this time. As soon as they brought him back to Hell, he was going to accept the offer of that assistant. Take it, take my soul, and take my memories. Erase me. I do not want to remember ever again. Let me fade in oblivion.  
>Meanwhile, they disembarked from the helicopter and headed to the sinister shafts, the lifts downward bound for Hell. Lia had someone to see, with that sly edgy smile of hers, an old friend, she said. Kemp would bring Mitchell to the shithole himself. The complicated keyboard was pressed again and again; down they went. Down...Mitchell's eyes were closed, he could not care less, would not pay attention to his coming death. The lift was going down...until it suddenly jolted and stopped. That was new; the moronic priest had probably pressed a wrong key not in the right order.<p>

It seemed to move; it certainly hissed, creaked, seemed to want to go downward and stopped. Then ever so slowly, it started to go upward, slowly, gingerly, not fast, but upward, at a very slow , hesitant, resisting pace. He could hear the heavy machinery crying in pain; "it" wanted to go down. Something, (what?) was saying no. A standstill and silence. The priest was nervously pressing the keys; any key it seemed; but it made no difference, and then the doors opened.

Outside, a group of men was waiting for them. Kemp jerked, and tried to close the doors. But open they were, very open. The man leading the assistants was a person of authority. A quick snap of the fingers, now Kemp was shackled like him.

- "Take him to the interrogation rooms; we have a lot to discuss"

Kemp was trying to resist rather pitifully. To no avail.

- "Dear, your pilot project is at your disposal"

Mitchell watched the scene detached, like the fascinated public of the 1930s when the 7th US cavalry regiment led by John Wayne saved the girl from the marauding Apaches. The tall man in white, in some sort of uniform was walking away down a very bright corridor. The whole thing reeked of some Spooks commando action. MI6? In Heaven?

- "Hi, Mr Mitchell, how do you do. How are you today?"

The woman in front of him was ...as tall as him. Kneeling to unlock his ankle manacles, those at his wrists, she helped him to stand. The accent was upper class, with a foreign twinge, French?

- "We need to go to my quarters. We have a lot to catch up on, and I am concerned that we may be observed."

Turning to him, she gestured in time honoured fashion to get his attention; move on, move on. Hurry. He left the lift, heard the doors close behind his back, dared a glance back, the wall was blank. Not one trace of an escalator, no lift, no shaft, the blasted contraption had disappeared, just like it had never existed. The woman was walking briskly, keeping her thoughts to herself. A quick stop to read a text message on a mobile. (They had mobiles in – what- Paradise?) An alarm pad, a code by a wide glass door; it opened silently.

The view took his breath away. Now, he knew why his mother had told him life was wonderful in Heaven. They were walking on lawns, facing a Greek-like sea, heading to a huge property. A sail boat was gently rocking on the quiet waves. When they got into the mansion all was refinement, understatement, calm, quiet, nothing overstated. Just the right thing. The woman dressed in white, with a single band of black, went through a large, a very large, front room, to some sort of library. She indicated a very comfortable leather armchair also in white. As he sat, she placed herself opposite him behind a large desk. Inwardly, he smiled. Richard and Emma had tried so hard to show him they were rich, whatever bloody class they were: they were crap, they were nothing. This was real class, this was money, and it spelt power, real power. Who was that woman, what did she want from him, what could he do to convince her to help him, to help Annie?

- "Firstly, Mister Mitchell, I must offer you, on behalf of the Management, our most sincere apologies, our most heartfelt apologies on the tragic late events. The system misdirected you; then despite our best endeavours you ended up in a rather atypical exotic location for your...your assessment; finally, you were kidnapped and brutally manhandled through no fault of ours, I must say. Anyhow, all's well that ends well"

The shit was carrying on. Already short-fused when he was alive, after his death, his staking, what have you, he was very angry.

- "I thought death - I mean the afterlife - was a resting place, as in Rest in Peace. You know no action, just laying down, and just some quiet time to reflect on past deeds. Not a bloody trip around the galaxy going downward. I wouldn't be surprised if you hadn't built those lifts in circles. After that, you send me to the North Pole for some educational school trip to Prehistoric Wales and you end up like shitty Gary Cooper, saving the widow and orphan. My name is John Mitchell, I am not a guinea pig, I am not your bloody un-dead lab rat!"

- "Shouting will not help you, nor abuse. But I accept that your treatment has been... eventful... possibly bordering on the sadistic."

-"I want to go back, I want to go home."

- "Err...where?"

- "To Eeschall, I am happy, really happy there. She is pregnant; we are going to have a baby, any time now. Please, you owe me; you admitted it"

- "Em, I am so sorry...but she is dead. I mean, you are back with us, we are in 2011AD. For your timeline any way; this young lady has been dead for a very long time."

Dead, she was dead. He was indeed cursed; he was lethal, contaminating everyone he loved. Tainting George's soul, endangering the baby, soiling Annie's soul. He deserved all that crap.

- "She lived a happy life; she loved you, gave you a lusty daughter, remarried a nice man, you remember the shy quiet bloke with whom you killed a wild boar, she had as good a life as can be in Wales 42,598 years ago. What was her name? Misc? Mish? Oh, those Ice Age names, impossible to pronounce them. Anyhow, this daughter of yours also led a happy life"

- "So, I had family, descendants?"

- "You are here. I mean you would not be here, if you had not had your daughter!"

The vampire looked confused. What the heck? Then he realized. He was his own descendant? John Mitchell some forty thousand years ago had been the very distant ancestor of John Mitchell born in Dublin in 1893. Whoever the Powers That Be were, they had a very sick sense of humour.

- "Anyhow, I am pleased to meet you again."

- "I know you?"

- "I should have said, I met you: "You" did not meet me. You see, I was already dead."

- "I have a good memory and I do not remember you as a ghost"

- "Not a surprise, I was already on the other side; you did not see me. You were not dead enough"

The vampire brows rose ironically.

- "We met in 1945, when British troops and your good self freed my friends - my surviving friends - in Belsen, Bergen-Belsen. You remember? They had me decapitated about a year earlier as I had dared trying to maintain some spirit of resistance in the in mates ranks."

The vampire knew who she was; he remembered the story, some woman, a doctor in a Revier, a French underground freedom fighter prisoner if he had the story right. Anyhow, she was feisty; that had not gone well with the camp Commandant. And she had been murdered. No surprise then if she was now a White. At the time, even he, who could not have cared less about the management of the planet, had felt compelled to join in. He saw it all, just as fresh as he had seen it when they had arrived. The nightmare he had faced. No, rewrite that, the nightmare the inmates had faced: because all things considered, he had it easy; D day? That was nothing. That was Hell, those people were martyrs.

- "It was cute, so...so nice of you to try and avenge us; the SS must have wondered why a vampire was so intent on hunting them down. Anyhow, better late than never, thank you on behalf of all my friends."

- "How? Why were you there? The doors?"

- "How? You must realize, there were so many people passing the doors, we had to establish a special welcome committee, the Station was overwhelmed, so many, so many... The door system was overbooked!"

- "So, you know me and you are helping me?"

- "I am your Appeal Judge. You had a colourful past, a chequered past. I had to review your files personally, all the statements, and your questionnaire. I felt obliged to assess your worth, where exactly you lean to, by yourself; where you stand without exterior influence. Though drastically shortened by Grey 1978, the result is good. You are a Grey - a darkish Grey certainly, but not a Black"

- "Like Annie?"

- "I see you start to understand our little world"

- "Was it worth endangering an innocent woman? What is worth all that show?"

- "Bitterness coming from Mister BT20 is a bit OTT, isn't it? Anyhow, from now on, we, I mean you, are going to go through Rehab then probation"

- "Rehab! For what and how?"

- "Blood addiction is a medical condition, your tendency to try and eradicate some of your fellow men, though endearing for some elements - Graham needed to be stopped and that Wilson was a positive monster -is somewhat tarnishing the fabric of your soul. You need cleaning, water plus, extra wash, conditioner cleaning."

- "I need a washing machine?"

- "A hospital, Mr Mitchell. You have a cancer of the soul, the cancer related to the killing of people to solve your problems, the tendency to short cuts ending up in blood baths, your rage, your giving in to anger, your addiction to retaliation, your inability to override and stop your short fuse! Hence chemo! My personal assistant will take you to the rehab centre the best able to deal with your condition"

The interview was over, the doors slid; an assistant as bland as the others presented himself and took him to the centre. The face was neutral, faceless; all seemed to come from the very same mould. He did not put it beyond the Powers to have the ability to build up some sort of special hologram programs.

They took him to the hospital, where for as long as was necessary the Blacks who did not have a life sentence were treated for their condition. She had warned him about chemotherapy.  
>Chemo it certainly was. Full swing, with all the trimmings. After years of pushing patients in wheelchairs coming and going from the oncology wards, he would be him to taste the medicine. The puppet was treated with care and consideration, the staff was as friendly and considerate as can be. But it was bloody murder into his veins, poison "because you're worth it", venom if it kills you. Another version of Hell where you wish your body would die, even if you were literally surrounded by care and love. Tender loving fucking soul cancer care.<p>

One day, how many days had lapsed? The Judge came to visit him.

- "I have been told you are making remarkable progress. Impressive, you have acquired a conscience that should allow you to override this tendency to get ridiculously angsty and incapable of a sound, quiet, well-balanced opinion. Naturally you will continue to make mistakes, nobody is perfect, but you will have some perspective, some idea of the broader picture. That should prevent your soul from further mishaps."

-"Thank you, I have been drinking bleach from the day, the very second, I entered this facility"

-"Do not give me sarcasm. You should have to apologize to each and every one of your victim. But Grey 752, Miss Lia as she wants to be known, refuses to play her part. This is a problem, as she is your last human victim and the process starts with her. You understand we cannot bypass her; she is number last victim. Anyhow, this is a time for celebration - let's see how fit you are now"

- "I am as fit as anyone who has been sick for the last hundred years -100/365/24/60/60 as you say – can be, and I am not going to bother to calculate your bloody dodecasecond"

- "Do you know our pool, our Olympic swimming pool?"

- "Your swimming pool?"

He'd better humour this maniac of fitness, water sports and probably weirder testing. They were constantly testing him to the limit. As long as it meant Annie was protected, he did not mind. He would have learned with pleasure the rules and regulations of professional tobogganing - or was it bobsleighing - George had invented. As long as his friends were saved, he would get along with any request.

They left the hospital walking through pristine grounds, waterfalls, catching glimpses of sunny beaches until they reached an empty building. That was some pool. Tarzan, the actor who played Tarzan in the thirties, had been some Olympic swimmer and had taught him how to swim the crawl...and dive. Johnny Weissmuller would have been impressed.

-"Would you show me?"

She gave him the men changing room direction.

The water was fresh, pleasant, not bleachy smelling. It was mintier.

- "Do you dive? Do you know how to dive?"

- "Yes, I know. Why?"

- "Humour me, show me."

Unable to rule out a system able to read his own private thoughts, he gave in, climbed back from the pool and started to ascend, going for the diving board. Reaching it, he looked down. The woman was looking oddly smaller than anticipated, yet her voice was clear as though she were standing beside him.

- "We had to take a decision. 752's Curse is attached to Mitchell's body and soul. We are solving the conundrum. Please jump, show me how you dive, and I shall explain it all"

He jumped and dived…


	9. Chapter 9

The ward was usually calm. The nurses and doctors went quietly about their jobs. The only time it became stressful was when families came to visit. Most of the time, the patient recovered and it was so nice to see the poor man surrounded by happy faces, even when the injuries were permanent. Some other days, the patient's condition deteriorated so much that despite all the available monitors, the most modern technology and drugs, the patient just faded away and died. Some never woke up and carried on their existence no better than vegetables. Able to breathe by themselves, fed by tubes, moved by nurses and physiotherapists, tested by consultants, eyes permanently closed to the world. Always asleep. Forever lost in their dreams. Do patients in a coma dream? Some say yes when they finally open their eyes to the world around them. Some say they never lost consciousness and were there always. Yelling desperate cries for help, trying to communicate in silence that they were "here". Please listen to me. Please, please…The families knew that once their loved one was sent to the ward, it meant the best care was given, but the odds were poor.

This was the end-game for severe head injuries, brain trauma you name it. For patient file 9314, the game had started far away from this peaceful hospital. First, a stopover at Camp Bastion Helmand, and then a medical helicopter for 30-40minutes to Kabul intensive care unit, back to Europe. Dawood , overbooked enough already, had transferred the sleeping man to Birmingham, all airlifted strategic aero medical evacuation to a Role 4 unit , courtesy from Her Majesty's Army. Not that it made a bit of difference. The man remained unmoved, unperturbed, drowned in that eternal sleep.

Slowly the ugly wound chest the explosive had caused was healing; the bomb had also left another nasty scar on a leg which was also on the road to recovery. The comatose traveller had found no cause to flicker his eyes. Feeling sorry for him, the nurses had tried to find out if some family could find a way to reach out. No family, poor chap, no family at all. Though Irish and those guys had more cousins than a rabbit has bunnies, he had no family at all. Just the record of a Belfast orphanage.  
>A child abandoned by his teenage mother? Teenage pregnancy was a big problem. Full of themselves, those slags. Binge drinking and the bloke sees an opening... Condom, me, who needs condoms. 9 months later, the live baby boy doll had become a burden.<p>

Soon enough, the baby was mired into the "child in need" agency of the time, one of those numerous agencies who dealt with "children at risk". Then one day, the child ended up in a care home. The word Orphanage meant the poor girl had at least tried to do right by her kid. What had been her untimely death? Alcohol, drugs, AIDS?

Must not have been easy for the poor mite. Irish orphanages were not renowned for their quality of care. Years later, such quality would come under more sinister colours. Poor, poor guy. Though from the look of him, he must have done well somehow, somewhere.

Good looking, awake, he must have been a charmer. Tall, quite tall, well over 6 feet. 6'2" said the record. Fair skin, chestnut wavy hair. The short crew cut from the army had not carried on being implemented by the doctors. Those blue eyes must have made him very easy on the eye. Said eyes were closed by stubborn sleeping eyelids.

Some of his friends of the Royal Irish Regiment had called in at the beginning. Now, without visitors, it was left to the staff to care for him and they did. They cared for the sleeping young Regular Army lieutenant. Barely 29, from now on a vegetable.

He was drowning, by now he should have felt the bottom of the pool, but he was diving deeper and deeper in. Bad enough that his temper ran on a short fuse; he was now experiencing short fuse panic. Full swing, full mode panic. He managed to stop the deep plunge, but where was he, what was up, what was down. Deep, he must be deep because his ears were ringing; the pressure around his chest was intensifying. Breathe, he had to breathe. He did not breathe. Vampires do not do breathing. He needed air, blessed air. Open your mouth let the air in. It was water, if he opened his mouth the water would run down his trachea drowning him. Air, water. Breath. Up, down. Where was the surface? The air was free, ready, waiting for him at the surface of the pool.

Where was the surface of that pool, of that sea, that ocean? Because that was no pool. He should have guessed when she asked him if he was ready to dive, "back into action". Some nonsense to see if after all that time spent without physical training, he might be less fit. He was fit. George had toyed at one point with the idea of joining a gym. He had not messed about. After Herrick death, his "first" death, he had cut down on the pizzas and kebabs. Saving the money for a cheap gym, buffing up his lanky frame, to the point of getting jealous comments from other porters on his successful workout routine. After…Bristol, he had become more of a recluse, spending all his free time in the attic, trying to figure out how to escape the Old Ones wrath, how to tell Annie. Might as well follow Cara in her crazy suicide. Whatever, he was fit. You had to be fit if you wanted to survive the very long winters of the Ice Age.

Now, this fit man was going to die of drowning. That was ridiculous. He was praying for air, oxygen he did not need. The surface, where was that fucking surface. Up? Down? Side? Right? Or Left? He was going to die. Why had the woman said as he was diving?

- "You must not feed, never"

The light, he saw the light, the surface. He started going up to it, which was weird because it was down. The light was down. Either he had totally lost his bearings or he was dying. The pressure was getting more and more uncomfortable around his chest, in his chest; his vampire lungs were getting manic, begging also for air, his human soul, praying for air. The light was turning black; he was never going to make it. Visions started to crowd his mind. Like that turbaned guy with jet black vampire's eyes aiming for his neck and the explosion at the same time or almost. The fangs digging into his neck were repulsive. It was Herrick all over again, and just like Herrick, it felt like rape. A physical rape, a soul rape. It was disgusting; he could not override the need to vomit. One cannot vomit in the sea unless one intended to drown. Air, air. The chest pain was unbearable. He had to reach the surface, he would reach the surface. His leg injury was killing him, his chest was killing him. The explosion sound was deafening. Air, air…Now he was falling, falling…

Nurse Corporal Brighton was changing the feeding line when the patient started tossing in his bed. A quick press on the panic button. The young man was jerking madly in his bed. He had to restrain him otherwise he was going to fall and hurt himself more. More nurses rushed to help him. The wounded lieutenant was having a seizure. Diazepam was introduced into his IV catheter. He slowly subsided, breathing more evenly. Who would have thought it, an epileptic seizure after all those months of quiet? Not that the head injury had not been severe. But the medical issue had been more the chest. The leg and the two small neck wounds would not have got him a ticket to Birmingham. It must have been a very violent explosion, because he would not awake. He had been now in a coma for how many months. That was easy to remember, the very same day of the nightmarish dastardly Box Tunnel crime.

Since that seizure, the lieutenant's Glasgow coma score had steadily improved. Comatose he was, yet so tentatively close to consciousness. The outlook was getting brighter every day. Funny, it was on the very same day they arrested the criminal, the nutcase of the BT20. Good riddance to the criminal who had been shot by the police as he had had the nerve to resist arrest. Everybody was in a celebratory mood that day. Next evening, the Irish soldier opened his eyes.

Air, light. Please, air. He jolted upright on the bed, gasping for dear life. One second he was being staked by George, the pain excruciating, yet there was such peace, such joy to be finally freed from the vampire gene, next second he was…where was he? The air was delicious. No there was no air. No need for air. He was acutely conscious of the male care assistant who had come into his room. The man's pulse was racing wonderfully closer. Closer.

Nurse Brighton was really surprised, this was quick recovery. Now, everything was getting crazy. The heart monitor was bleeping madly, like the patient had had a cardiac arrest. For someone proclaimed dead by the machines, the patient sure did look alive. Wild eyes, bewildered eyes. Black irises. Blue irises. A trick of the light.

- "Are you OK, Sir? Please lie down, you must be exhausted, sir. Come in Baker. Mr Swanson, I mean Lieutenant Swanson, please, you must rest, please"

The sounds of all those heart beats, those pulses, it was intoxicating like drowning in a pool of pure blood. How long was it since he had fed? He needed to feed; the Hunger was unbearable; it was going to be so good to give in. The glorious feeling of his fangs coming down was divine. The eyes were turning black. It was going to be just as glorious as on the day those 20 Darwin's children had been feasted on!

20. Box Tunnel 20. Jesus. He opened his eyes, noticing for the first time the faces of the nurses around him.

- "So happy to have you back with us, Lieutenant Swanson. Please, rest. Take a deep breath. We are all so happy to have you back. From now on, this is going to be all so much better. Our staff is going to take good care of you ". Jesus, where was he? Who were those people? Who was this bloody Swanson everybody was mentioning. Yeah, he was back. Back where, back when? Back to the fucking life of a vampire.

He wanted them to leave, go 'way-out. Except he was exhausted, like a baby. He just wanted sleep, sleep.

The consultant gave a soundless finger snap. All the staff but the matron and he, left the room. Wonderful, Swanson was back. Back but as one would expect, shattered by the experience. The patient needed rest and supervision.

As the days went by, Mitchell slowly learned to move his neck without getting a blinding headache, and to regulate his laboured breathing. Looking at hands he did not recognize, he tried often to stay upright, but that was more often than not met by a blinding nausea if not downright sickness. The nurses were satisfied. His chest wound had almost completely disappeared. Fact was, all his wounds, even the scars, had gone, all but the one to his left chest. While they were commenting approvingly on his amazing powers of cicatrisation (if you only knew…), the doctors were making him swallow every pill of every colour known under the sun, anti-epileptic drugs, anti-emetics, iron tablets, (since he had regained consciousness, his haemoglobin levels were dropping dramatically yet he was not bleeding), more blood transfusions (at least this red cell count has stopped dropping, but it was still quite low).

- "What would you like tonight for your tea, Lieutenant? There is pizza on the menu"

Sadly, the pizza he ordered with pleasure had looked back at him and decided not to oblige. He could not bear the idea of swallowing this... thing. Leaving the tray untouched but for the water, he started to close down to all sensations. Such as the pulse of the tray bearer.

- "Not partial to Italian food, huh? You're like me. Now, proper English food, oops, sorry, I mean proper Irish food, that`s the thing. There is some shepherd pie left, do you want any?"

If looks could kill, this nurse was dead. The blabbering idiot had kept on and on, until he had groaned, tortured by the Thirst. The nurse had sighed taking out the tray. His ears left him in no doubt that he'd been described as unthankful bastard. If food was a territory where he was not successful, physical autonomy was back. Gingerly at first and then more assured as the days went by, he stood up, walked around and removed each and every line from his body to the distress of his carers. I can walk, I've had no fits, I am fine; besides, the monitor can`t find my pulse. Do I look dead to you? No! Remove those machines, I won`t find sleep with them.

After successfully getting rid of the telltales about his real status, he had managed to avoid the friendly help for a shave. Swanson, since that was the name he was going under, liked electric razors. Like me, good guy! The mirror test had confirmed the Blood Lust feeling. This was earth, a much more recent Earth. A request for newspapers told him that it was now June 2011. Following the royal newlyweds, the paparazzi were everyday commenting on the future queen's figure, looking for a bump, or no bump, whatever bump it was. Sod off. Who cares about the bloody Royals? I`m Irish, I fought in 1916 against you! This train of thought sobered him up, as what followed the assertion, was: I died for King and Country in 1917 - for your great-great-grand father.

Birmingham Hospital. Good, he had to leave, the doctors were starting to get worried, he was not fitting the typical recovery route. He was becoming more and more atypical. One day - and the moment was nearing - one would start wandering on the wild side, the dark side of the "what if…" What if Lieutenant Swanson was a vampire?

Discharge signed (You must not. You are too weak. I will tell the head surgeon, the brass, the colonel!) I'm signing myself out. Have I had a seizure lately? No! I promise not to drive, the DVLA will be happy. Good bye, what? Yes, I will swallow the pills and see my GP ASAP. Where? Belfast! Back Home.

In a frenzied hurry to leave before those morons discovered that a biblical revelation was about to burst open, he threw his military pyjamas on the floor, getting quickly into whatever civilian clothes this person who was not him had in his travel bag.

He was in too much of a hurry to investigate what sort of clothes this bloke liked. And it was enough of a surprise to discover his foot size was now 48, while his trousers were clearly way longer than he remembered. Jeans nowhere near as tight, cotton shirts, no vest, a sensible corduroy jacket. This man was the epitome of staidness. Not even boots.

The ATM screen was requesting his pin code. What pin code. How could he be that stupid? Unless. Pressing his date of birth, his real date of birth, he was relieved to see that it worked. Next buy a train ticket, far from, from where? The migraine had started again. Constantly hammering his temples, the back of his head, the chest tightness was playing too.

Those hearts, those veins, full of racing, juicy, lovely blood, food, prey. The train, I must not get in that train, get out, leave, blood, feed. This was a nightmare, a long nightmare; he left the train at the nearest station. What is the right station? He climbed back. Where was he going? Why was he going down to Wales? The headache was rising to unbearable intensity. Eyes closed, he wished to die so it would stop. The rising tide of bile was overwhelming; he had…

- "Oh God, how disgusting? My bag!"

- "Sorry, so sorry…"

Fleeing the carriage, he tried to breathe but all the carriages were full of more passengers, more racing veins. Going back to his place, walking on the vomit, he closed again his eyes against the light. Next time, buy sunglasses. Please, can someone have mercy on me? Sleep came and took the weary man away in its fold.

For a dream, that was "some" dream. The pure heroin shots he tried in the eighties had not been as wild. Thatcher regnant, he had dabbled into any chemical available over or under - deep under - the counter. This had seriously depleted his finances, but made no difference at all to his primary addiction: blood. He was a junkie, primarily on blood. The rest gave the bonus of killing on acid. He woke up so many days with a dead body; he lost count of his victims. There was an epidemic of overdosing which had nothing to do with drug abuse. He killed senselessly, Big Bad John in full swing, never awake, never conscious, always on a high, never low on blood supply.

The trip, today, was less violent but as bizarre as can be. A queue in a train station, then some lift in the cold which blended with an Eskimo who turned out to be Annie .Annie who was no longer a ghost, Annie who was pregnant and gave him a daughter. Kemp arrived? Kemp, he was dead! Annie had made sure of that. More lift, with a woman in white and Johnny Boy Weissmuller in 1941 Hollywood teaching in how to swim. And drowning to wake up in the BT20. Except Lia was not there replaced by a woman telling him off.

- "You must not feed, Mitchell. You must avoid feeding. It is of the utmost importance you do not feed ever again. Sorry for the pool trick. We were rushed for time. We shall meet again."

- "Must not feed, must not feed…"

- "If some people cannot handle their drink, they should avoid travelling. Look at my bag!"

The headache was better, the nausea was leaving him. The violin symphony of heartbeats had finished its last bow. He looked at the train ticket dug deep in his left pocket. Barry Island. Why? He was from Belfast. He searched his chest pocket. Inside on a military document, a crew cut man looked at him. Who was that man? John Mitchell Swanson? He did not remember he looked like that. Fact was he was pretty sure he had not looked like that. He was tall by 1917 standard, but this man he was now was taller plus stockier.

Who was he really? The train carried on running on its rails. The sick passenger dozed off more than once, looking so unwell that a wide space was left around him. By the time he reached his destination the migraine was back with a vengeance. He should not have thrown away the pills. Mitchell, you are stupid, Nina would say. Who was Nina? He was a vampire, what the shit was he thinking? He was no fucking vampire, was he? He had forgotten his name.

The carriage was empty now. He had to leave. Picking up the duffle bag, he shot to the nearest toilets, making sure no one was in with him. In the army, you do not mess about when you empty your bladder; as a Dracula follower, you guess that any human would be freaked out by the missing reflection in the mirror. He freshened up. A hotel, no a B&B. Paid cash, no questions asked. Where to go, with what money? He knew he should have drawn out more money. He was lost in that town; not that lost, his steps taking him to a HSBC bank. Why HSBC? My dear Mitchell, the wisest sharpest financial sharks are from Hong Kong; the Old Ones have always banked with their Asian Counterparts. And their bites are quite juicy! Herrick and his lame jokes...


	10. Chapter 10

Another sodding queue, not again. Shit, his life was spent queuing. His notion of life was not standing in line waiting to serve or to be served. The smell of lives near him, the racing hearts, now that was life. His feet; he had to focus on his feet. He did not notice the two men. Ignoring each other, frozen smiles on their faces, a slightly quicker pulse; if one pays attention to heart beats, one becomes mad. There's the one with slow pace due to drugs; the quicker one who needs to visit his GP soon; the mechanical pace, thank you Pacemaker. So beats it was, and the smell of blood rushing, whooshing in those veins. The now three men, a back pack, a Tesco bag and a lap top case had set themselves at some strategic angles.

"Every body on the floor, this is a bank robbery!"

Shit, gangsters. Just what I need. Best humour them.

Ahead of him, an old lady was shuffling, shifting terrified eyes right and left.

"Let me help you!"

The nearest robber pressed him to hurry.

"OK, I'm hurrying; this lovely lady needs help. Don't worry, dear, just let me help you. Just bend your knees; pretend we're going on a picnic, just you and me; good girl, no tears, yes, a big smile. Darlin', you must have been a stunner at the end of the war."

(Great; now I sweet-talk purple haired ladies!)

This was getting really weird. The other hostages were already on the floor. Joining them, he slowly, ever so slowly, looked what weapons they held. A Russian looking machine gun, probably sold on the Warsaw black market, a Browning, and another SUSAT; that was not too bad. What was more dangerous was the bulging back pack.

"Open the bloody safe! Where is that bank manager?"

"Man, if you do not open that safe...you see that back pack, chock of C4!"

(Must convince them I am on their side and get those three alone with me.)

"Could do with some dough myself."

"I'll bet you could, smart guy."

The manager was resisting the robbers. A single gunshot. HSBC would have a vacancy.

"Come on, smarty pants. Yeah you, soldier boy. We need someone to carry the bags; you don't want to end up in a body bag do you?"

(If you only knew. Almost there, play stupid, hands up, OK, higher up; as though it's going to make a difference once we have that cosy chat in the safe)

The thief fired a shot into his left arm.

(Shit, that bullet hurt!)

Now, in the safe, supposedly safe from the world, ready to face the police, the two robbers were filling the bags with enough money to swim in. Another shot. The Irish lieutenant crumpled. The body of their dead hostage was lying on the floor nearby. Really, one should pay more respect to one's victim! When the gangsters, gasping, watched the body of their victim slowly rising up, on his hands then knees then standing tall facing them, they had been very, very afraid. When they realized his eyes were 2 black orbs and the length of his canines was way longer than advised by the royal college of dentists for any corpse, they yelled in a charming terrified duet. Edging to the door, the vampire, fighting his basest instinct about the tempting blood supply, lifted the back pack, and threw it at the wall furthest away, closing the door of the safe behind him as fast as he could.

(Good bank, nothing leaves their safe! And now there is only one armed man left)

A trickle of blood was slowly finding its way along his arm, down his left hand, splattering the floor.

(This really, really hurts. Shit, shit.)

The remaining gangster had heard, just like the rest of the hostages, the muffled explosion. He was getting sweaty, holding the gun more for his own protection than to terrorize the group of clients and bank assistants. One thing was sure though, he knew how to shoot.

" You see, officer, this charming young man, a well-behaved, lovely young man, burst from the room and jumped on that robber, He managed to stop the monster from killing us all; but the...the... the gangster , he shot him. I know he shot him, here, but that young man, that heroic young man, he carried on struggling to get hold of the gun. At the end, the robber ran out pursued by our saviour."

"No, I don't know who he is; but he saved our lives. He saved fifteen lives"

"Without him, we would be all dead. The one left with us said they were making sure no one would ever talk"

Outside the bank, Swanson and Mitchell realized that becoming a hero had its drawbacks. The idiotic tendency of the police and public to congratulate said hero, asking questions and wanting answers he was loath to give. Better let the bastard run for his life; no one would believe him ever. How could a man with two or was it three wounds be able to walk, fight and run?

The three bullets were burning like fire, plus the loss of blood and his post-traumatic head injury headache were weakening him more and more. He needed to stop the bleeding, perhaps copy Rambo in self stitching mode? He had to go to the hospital. Blessing Swanson's taste for heavy duty black coats, Mitchell started walking toward the hospital.

"Miss Annie, please, I know you like tea. What do you say we have a look at that aisle?"

This trip to Tesco was not going well. Since Mitchell's staking, the ghost was fading. She could not cry. Already unable to sleep, she had now added to her bereavement management skills a tendency to stay upright like a dissolving pillar of salt crumbling away like a sandcastle eroded by the waves. The biblical reference was not lost on George who would have preferred wailing, tears, all sorts of physical rage; but not that silent grief, that lost frozen look of despair. Hence shopping in Tesco and its distracting row upon row of tea, coffee and sugar lumps!

"Tesco is pleased to announce that the armed robber who escaped from the Barry HSBC Bank raid had been arrested. You can watch the BBC News reports on our TV screens "

Sitting in front of the telly in HH, George sat suddenly upright, letting his mug of tea spill over his nicest pair of trousers.

"Thanks to a mysterious yet heroic customer, no innocent lives were lost. We have some CCTV footage of the robbery; sadly the hero of the day is not seen, probably because of a blind camera angle. It is so nice to see in this day and age, while vile criminals commit the atrocities like the notorious Box Tunnel 20, here in Barry we have avoided such a fate. The saviour of the Barry Bank Hostages 15 is a hero! If you see a wounded man : chestnut hair, army style cut, black knee length coat, blue eyes, well over 6 feet, call BBC Radio Barry or contact your nearest police station"

"What? Nina? Nina!..."

"Yes, George, this journalist is a moron"

" It's a vampire, and he has been badly wounded"

"Our home is not a hostel, nor a hospital for supernaturals; you know my feelings about it"

"This vampire has just saved fifteen humans, Nina, fifteen. He needs help and must be helped to avoid detection. Our detection"

"So you plan to distribute leaflets: I am looking for a man not showing on CCTV"

"I think I know where to find him; a very good idea where to find him"

"George? Arrgghhh"

The outside door slammed; the next thing his pregnant girlfriend heard was the sound of the Volvo leaving.

"Is there a problem, Nina?"

"No, Christa dear, no..."

As her pregnancy was drawing closer and closer to the birth, it was such a relief to have another female werewolf at her side. Christa was not pregnant, and from what she said, nowhere near ever becoming pregnant ever in her life Nevertheless, the two women got along very well. Nina needed an understanding ear to help her accept the bewildering changes of her own body. Annie was a dear, but she was dead, not a werewolf and way too heartbroken to provide much help herself.

After Mitchell's...passing, George had called Adam to inform him of the older vampire's death. The 46year old teenager had not been surprised.

"Way too thick in his head, too much of a worrier!"

As for the danger from the Old Ones, the sixteen year old vampire was positively snarky, saying that some people should be put in nursing homes and by the way, could George help one of his friends?

Nice, REALLY- capital letters, George. A girl, about his age or just a wee bit older. A girl...like him and Nina. She lived alone, in a hostel. Something had happened to her. No, not that George, "something" else. What it was, he was clueless. His friend needed friends, like her, who could help her. Smart girl, George, real, awesome smart. Not beating about the bush, Adam and a mate, a ghost mate, had decided to have a gap year and travel around. You know George, Matt and I we feel frisky and with Christa tailing us, we are sort of obliged to...to behave!

Wyndham had looked with his curious ironic smile at the clutter of clothes and dust which was all that was left of Mitchell.

"George, you want to...fight? George, Georgie, doggie boy. George, you are a positive delight!"

The Old One left the house, closing the door without slamming it, quietly, which was all the more worrying. Since then, nothing had happened. They suspected that they were watched, but nothing was happening. Nothing but an unexplained delivery of Pedigree Chum cans and a subscription to "K9, the lifestyle magazine for modern dog lovers". Nina had shredded the magazine into very small bits.

Barely taking time to lock the car, George rushed through the hospital corridors. The BBH15 hero was there somewhere. Those weapons shot real bullets. The man must be wounded, in need of nursing. George had the registered nurse at hand; what was needed now was the patient. Reluctant or not, shy or not, the un-dead was going to book an appointment at Honolulu Heights surgery. Soon the full moon was due, his wolf senses were good and he finally picked up a particular smell. Like a mummy - _if you want the truth, Mitchell, you smell like a dry mummified corpse_. Except naturally Mitchell would never know. He would never be told.

He missed his friend. His best friend. Vampire or not, the two men had bonded since their first meeting. It was not a gay thing; it was a real male friendship, strong, quiet, and deep. Made up of lots of jokes, a few nights out followed by a few rather headachy mornings, fighting their enemies together back to back, knowing without wasting time to say it that they cared deeply for each other, they could rely on each other through thick and thin, that they loved each other as brothers . His friend...the friend he had just killed. OK, he had no choice. Mitchell was condemned to a life of drudgery. Becoming an Attack dog was not becoming top dog, far from it. Plus he was too unreliable regarding his addiction. Given time, George was sure they would have sorted something, what, he would never know, but he would have found a way. Mitchell should not have finished his long life like this.

By now, he was entering the realm of the cleaners. The cleaning products, mops, pails, you name it. What was a vampire doing with buckets and bleach? Finally, he located the wounded man. Yeah, tall, taller than him and definitely stocky. Gingerish chestnut, blue eyes; black wild eyes, bleeding, lost, staggering, keeling over and...?

"George?"

The vampire swooned. Where was Mitchell when you needed him? The man was like a ton of bricks. A few vigorously administered slaps and the man came around. Not losing time in superfluous explanations, the werewolf lifted, held, carried, and dragged the wounded man. Not bothered by what he knew showed on the CCTV, "our porter Sands seems to be totally drunk, look how he's walking in the corridor", he pushed the collapsed vampire into the Volvo. And drove like a maniac back to the B&B.

Fumbling with his keys, George opened the doors, turned around and pulled at the struggling older man.

"Don't be stupid, come in; this is your home from now on"

The Irish man half alive, half dead, saw a young female dog surrounded by school books, attended by that Tom youth, like a princess waited upon by a slightly stupid swain in the front room. Nina ran toward her own room muttering something in her teeth like "Bloody vampires and my freshly cleaned carpet". All the people he ever cared for but Annie were there.

"Take him to the attic. Annie has transformed Mitchell's bedroom into a fucking mausoleum"

It took Tom, George and Christa to push, pull, lift, carry, the bleeding vampire to the room at the top. Nina followed holding her nurse's bag and first aid kit. The wounds were not a pretty sight. Thank Heaven; they had missed the vital parts. What vital parts, George? He is dead, well un-dead, not alive, you know George. As she extracted one of the bullets in the upper left shoulder, she noticed the round scar just above his left breast, a nice, neat, healed round scar, a strange scar. Well, Mitchell had some tattoos, why could this vampire not have an old scar, from before he was turned?

Finally, the man's wounds had been cleaned and dressed, the bullets removed. The 4 werewolves, or was it 5 as the baby had moved a lot since the arrival of the BBH15 hero, left the attic. The mysterious man had not said a word. A lot of blood loss, George, I think he will survive, but he is going to be tired for a long time. And I forbid anyone of you to steal from the hospital blood bank!

As they all came downstairs, drained and rather blood stained, Annie was closing Mitchell's door. Informed about the series of events which had led to the arrival of a new vampire in the attic, she decided to have a look at him. Sweet irony, not only was this vampire the acclaimed hero of Barry and probably all Great Britain, this...man was now stuck where evil Herrick had been lodged. Be good, be bad, be treated the same.

Outside all was dark. Night had settled. Downstairs, the men were setting the table in the kitchen while Nina and Christa were putting a last minute touch to an Irish stew. In the attic, all was silence. The sleeping wounded man did not breathe; how can he breathe, you stupid girl, he is a vampire for God sake. Without walking, the ghost was now near the bed, sitting on the bed, looking at the rather good looking man. She saw the old round scar and thought nothing of it. George had muttered something like Afghanistan lieutenant?

Her hand moved toward his hair, when he opened his eyes. Blue, startling blue, periwinkle blue, full of innocence. An innocent vampire?

"Annie...?"

The young woman jumped; but the wounded man had closed his eyes again, fainting for the umpteenth time that day.


	11. Chapter 11

The house was quiet; correction - the house was generally quiet. When tenants have to work shifts in a hospital, you always have one catching up on sleep, while the others try to earn their wages. The remaining member of the household was a ghost so quite used to doing the quiet, silent bit. No, today it was creepy quiet, way too quiet. He tried to get up, the walls started swimming. Biting his lower lip, he persisted. (OK, I am now sitting.)

The three gunshot wounds were like hot pokers searing inside his chest; but he had known worse, a lot worse.

(Now legs down. Where did they … where did George put my trousers?)

(On the floor! George, these trousers cost me dear. They're Armani, George.)

(God, Swanson was a male fashionista.) (Now, a shirt! No vest? OK, matey, we'll go for the shirt.)

The floor was undulating ahead. He walked ever so slowly, surfing on a wave of nausea. On a pile of old records, he saw the stake which had been intended a long, long time ago for Herrick. Might come in handy. Inside his head, he could hear the Belfast accented voice commenting: "So that is what vampires use as guns among themselves. How interesting."

He could not walk fast. This was a good thing. This way, he had all the time in the world to reflect on which part of each stair was creaky. Ever so slowly, he went down to the ground floor, guided by the voices.

The Old Ones' minions had not seen him. He entered the kitchen. Everybody was standing in the front room; the household complete - supposedly complete.

"You have to understand, George, when we say we wanted an attack dog, we meant it. You have snuffed out our pet project. So it's Regent's Park for you two. I mean you two couples. I like symmetry, don't you? On one side, you and Nina crucified, opposite side ,this young dog and his bitch"

Tom McNair was holding Christa tight; she did not mind at all for once, a male embrace. Tom was protective and it felt so good to feel real love, respectful love, this vampire could have been reciting bloody Byron's complete poems for all she cared. Adam might be a hyper sexed up vampire but the teenager had way better morals than this twat. Nina was terrified; George was trying to be as courageous as can be. How can you stand tall pretending all will be over like a rollercoaster ride when your heavily pregnant partner, your two friends and you are being told you are going to re-enact live a roman torture.

Where was Annie? Wyndham was droning on and on. Carry on; you always were a pompous arse. Too bad the Ghost had decided to ramble into town. But that was not a problem. A bit of petrol here and there; the B&B would soon become the next victim in a series of mysterious arson attacks, like the one in Bristol. The van for London was to arrive anytime soon. He was looking forward to offering this special pair of candelabras to the Duke and Duchess of Cambridge. As a finishing touch, he would - personally George - set fire to the two crosses, just like Nero did with the Christians. What did the dogs think of his artistic flair!

He almost shrieked when he felt Annie's cool hand on his arm. The stake was now firmly in his right hand, no messing about. Without speaking, a finger on her mouth (I know, girl, I am not stupid!), she pointed to the narrow hallway. Diversion, OK; the minions would rush there, leaving Wyndham alone, that is where his part would be played. On cue, the ghost picked up her brand new lovely fine bone china teapot, plus one or two mugs and tiptoed in the corridor. They did not have much time as elements of surprise, but such were the cards that had been thrown in their hands; if they played it well, Wyndham might not win this rubber.

The repeated crashing of breaking china resonated. Wyndham 's guards shot to the hallway, and Swanson jumped from behind the Old one, holding the wooden stake very close -much too close - to his neck.

"I don't know who you are, but I suggest you unhand me; very poor manners, tut-tut"

"You better tell your men to leave this house, Wyndham boy, this is my home and none of your friends are welcome here. You hear me, you lot, you are not welcome here, ever, not by doors, by windows, by any form of openings, latch, keys , codes or whatever"

Lieutenant Swanson was bloody reciting a B&Q list of domestic hardware. Yet after each word the ghost and the four werewolves were feeling a bit less worried about their situation. The stake was held firmly, in a steady hand. Move guys and your boss is smoked like a rat! Whoever this tall northern Irish man was, he was clearly of a different cut than Wyndham. Mitchell had been fearful of the smug older vampire. The BI20 hero could not give a shit about the smoothly spoken South American.

"I get it, we get it. Your 1957 time capsule of a home is out of bounds, off limits for ever. Now, let's be polite to each other. I don't know you, do I?"

"You get out, before I throw you out"

"What is your name? You know I'll find out. Tell me: who are you?"

"You are welcome to any vampipedia search for all I care, now fuck off!"

The group of vampires left the house. If looks could have killed, he would have been staked a thousand times. The car engine turned and they were gone.

"We did it, George, we did it, and this time we were the least gayest ninjas."

It had been a long time since Annie had smiled or joked. The three girls were hugging themselves, and hugging for good measure the two men in the middle of the room. They would have probably hugged the new member of the household, if he had been standing up. The BBH15, correction, the BBH15+HH5, arrgghhh, what a name, the BI20 was slumped on the sofa, sporting a very greeney hue.

"I think I'm gonna be sick..."

This time, Nina and the girls did not complain. They looked on approvingly while the saviour of the day was emptying his stomach contents and more on the carpet. After that, they all helped him to get back to his bed. Annie courageously offered Mitchell's bed; but the vampire shook his head, no thank you, not that bed. His room was upstairs, up...

"Please a bucket before he throws up again!"

Wyndham was never to know he had missed this entertaining scene by a few precious minutes. The adrenaline flush gone, all that remained was a very tired vampire, just wanting to lie down, close his eyes and be dead to the world. They all promised to come back; George went looking for a trumpet. A trumpet? Well, the vampire would need one... to call for help, like a bell, a servant's bell for the maid. You did not expect the poor chap to come downstairs for tea. A trumpet, because no-one hears those ridiculous bells. Argos might sell one...

George, new, old, whatever he was, typical George. Coffee, please, no milk, no sugar. Black. Miss? Miss Christa, if you please. Yes, can you bring it, Mister ….. ? Mister McNair. Better pretend he did not know the dog. Clearly the whelp was enamoured of the young bitch. Enjoy, mate, I have no taste for Lassie. My taste runs in a different direction, but I have been badly burnt. So from now on, it will be Mr and ...

"Thanks for the help, miss..."

"Annie, my friends call me Annie"

"Miss Annie. Don't ghosts have last names?"

"Ann Claire Sawyer"

"Thanks, Miss Sawyer"

They were gone, Annie was probably gone too. It was cruel, he had been cruel, cold as ice, inflexible. It was for the best, for her best, their best. As far as he understood it, as long as he ignored her, she was safe from Kemp and Lia. The Judge, missus knows-it-all, could say what she wanted. If Lia had been powerful enough to mess with his past life, he was not putting it past her to try and mess this one up too. So, we shall ignore each other, be strictly polite to each other, picture perfect 1917 manners between a young bachelor and a single young lady, verging on indifference. Better that than suffer as he had, as she had, poor Annie. He had to protect her. She had killed one person already. God, she must stop. He would help her; prevent her from compromising her soul further. Annie was his last conscious thought, before sleep overwhelmed him.

The room was austere, yet some elements were...disturbing. Unquiet was the word. The room was unquiet, unsettled. It was not at peace with the world, it was...resentful for lack of a better word.

"I can do it; let me try"

"You failed"

"I am sure I can, let me try again"

"I do not do "try again", dear"

The shadow pulled out an object and stabbed the young woman's hand.

"You have to understand, they know about you. I cannot risk being found out, because of some rubbish witch. My plans are not to be thwarted because of the failure of a miscast spell"

The crotchet hook was unravelling the fabric of the woman's soul at amazing speed. In less than a second, all what was left was a blue and vaguely paisley patterned ball of wool. The shadow smiled, as much as shadows can smile, and if that smile was cold, cunning, calculating and cruel.

He stood up, pressed on an elaborate carving and a hidden niche appeared. Holding an empty box labelled "Lia", he put the ball in it and replaced the box in the niche where other boxes were waiting. Kemp, Lucy, Wilson, Lia, Herrick, and above all, _his_. One box was sitting apart, empty, its lid open. "Mitchell" read the sticker. Mitchell, his unruly slave. The slave had run away, the puppet had rebelled against its master. Mitchell had dared to find a voice of his own, instead of being the mute servant of his ventriloquist master. Patience was needed, that was all, just patience. The slave would soon be back in the box.

End of Part One.

As stated in numerous fan fictions way better thought out and written, all the heroes belong to Toby Whithouse. I thank Aidan Turner, Lenora Critchlow, and Russell Towey for their fabulous acting, the magical trio is to be worshipped. I thank naturally Lacey Turner, Michael Socha, Robson Green, Jason Watkins and all the other great actors who have been a part of the amazing ongoing Being Human saga. Without them, I would not have heard the voices of Mitchell, Annie, George and Nina, little Nina, I have not forgotten you. We seldom see eye to eye, but you are plucky to the back bone, way to go, girl.

As of today, this version of the Afterlife is mine, and is planned to belong to a non-fan fiction story. It will be different, the storyline will elaborate in another direction, but the settings will remain the same and belong one hundred per cent to me.

Only Lord Toby himself has the right to ask me if I am happy to give him any part of it. I am; as long as the STX56 copyright trademark is mentioned somewhere in the episode. If this ever happen, do not be surprised to hear about a fainting Lincolnshire GP, it will be me.

Why end of Part One; Do you think for one second, that Mitchell, Nina, George and Annie have finished keeping me in their confidence. No way, they are very talkative for Anglo-Saxons characters. More so than French Ones. So bring it on, Being Human cast. And if, you, yes, you reader want to know what happened next, feel free to send messages, emails and reviews. The plot has just barely begun to thicken!


End file.
